


ethereal - newtmas

by axbee



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: ;), M/M, Time Travel, WW2 AU, actually very sad i changed my mind, and gets evacuated, i might add in a few more characters later, its a war what do u expect, its not so bad Ha, just gimme a chance, newt and minho are from the past, newt and thomas fall in love eventually, ok so this is a mess BUT, sad stuff happens, this kinda sad, thomas goes back in time, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axbee/pseuds/axbee
Summary: ❝ spoiler alert : we all die in the end. ❞— or in which the school basketcase travels in time and does the last thing expected:Fall in love.





	1. one ; B A S K E T C A S E

❝ _It was his chaos that made him beautiful._ ❞

_\- atticus_

  
**M O N D A Y**

It's 7:43am and Thomas Edison is late for school.

It's not his fault. Not really. It's a Monday morning and the air is crisp and it nips at ripe red ears. Purple fingers swell with the chill and porcelain pale flesh is stung by the cold.

What can he say? Winter mornings freeze his body, and of course he wants to wrap himself in his duvet, ignoring the irritating buzz of his alarm that drills into his brain every morning. It's a miracle his eyeballs haven't fallen out at the piercing sound of it.

Waking up late isn't exactly a prominent excuse, but it's not like Thomas can come up with anything better. According to the authority figures of his shitty school, they think his car broke down last week, he ran over a hedgehog on the way to school, he left his schoolbag at home and had to go back to get it, and his phone fell into a drain on the way.

His bullshit excuses won't last long, and to be honest, he's sick of having to pull something out of his ass every single morning. It's not his fault he can't get himself out of bed. Who can? It's December, for fucks sake.

He's not your classic, straight A student, to be fair. He doesn't try and he isn't naturally bright. He shows up late every day and doesn't participate in class. He starts fights and swears at teachers and he's pretty sure it's not long before he gets kicked out of school for good.

Not that he cares. He hates the fucking place.

The bell has long gone as Thomas kicks a stone down the path towards the entrance of his school, hands stuffed firmly in his pocket. Eyes casted downwards, his teeth chatter uncontrollably. He forgot his scarf, this morning. His brain is still back home, somewhere. Maybe with the scarf.

Busting open the doors and strolling casually down the empty hallways, Thomas hums to himself. He doesn't know what his first class even is. English? Maybe. Or math. He doesn't care. Maybe he'll skip today.

Thomas is considered the basketcase of his school. His teachers hate him, his peers hate him. The caretakers hate him. He's messy, he's rude. He causes disruptions and he doesn't care about anyone or anything. He doesn't talk to anyone, and he doesn't exactly know how. He's smoked on the property before and he's been in so many fights it's hard to count.

'Basketcase' seems a little far, in Thomas' opinion, but he's already been labelled a social freak and if everyone wants to call him that, then fine. So be it.

He hates school. He's a social, nervous wreck at some stages and it's no wonder he lashes out. Detention is his second home and suspension is to be expected at this point — but he simply can't find it in himself to give a shit.

His parents don't care, either. His dad has fucked off to god knows where and his mom is busy living her sky-high life with her well paying job and beauty pageant daughter. Thomas is just, there. Existing. Barely — but he's there.

He doesn't have any friends. He doesn't like anybody. Maybe the owner of the ' _Wallflower Diner_ ' but that's pretty much it. Girls? Bitches. Guys? Dickheads. Family? Non-existent. Like him.

He's just floating around. No purpose. No future. No meaning. He just doesn't see the point. Can you blame him? Everyone else can.

"You're late."

Thomas whips his head around so fast his vision is blurry for a second. Face to face with his history teacher, Mr Hartman, Thomas rolls his eyes with a playful smirk.

"Yeah, I can read the time, you know."

"Great," Mr Hartman quips, unfazed by Thomas' smartness. "Surely you'll know what time school starts at, then?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again, Thomas lets out an irritated huff. "I know I'm late. Not that big of a deal."

Mr Hartman snorts a little. He has a humorous personality, sarcastic and playful. He's a good teacher, who's always willing to help out his students and he's understanding of them. He's easy, but not a pushover. Thomas is lying if he says Mr Hartman isn't one of his favourites.

However, as funny as he can be, Mr Hartman always has his moments. Not so fun, moments.

Stern enough, with a slight frown on his face, the history teacher gestures Thomas to follow him. "Come with me. You're lucky I haven't even given you detention for the cheek."

"You wouldn't dare," Thomas grins, following him without a moment of hesitation. The two glide down the hallways, in a silence that Thomas can't tell between awkward or peaceful.

Once they reach Thomas' history classroom, the man unlocks the door and nods his head for Thomas to walk inside. It's unusual, really. Thomas should probably be drooling in class right now, but here he is. In his empty history room with his goofball teacher.

"What am I here for?" He ends up saying, walking around the room. He hears the door close behind him and he turns around to face Mr Hartman plopping comfortably on his desk chair.

"I just wanted to have a chat," he says, with a kind smile. He has kind eyes, too. Green and bright. He has a snouty nose and slightly crooked teeth that give him a youthful appearance, but his brown beard and forehead wrinkles say otherwise.

Thomas watches him cautiously, carefully striding to next to him only to flop down onto a desk, propping his feet up on the chair. Raising his brows, Mr Hartman ignores Thomas' skeptical attitude and carries on with his intentions.

"How've you been, Thomas?"

Thomas almost laughs.

"Fine. You?"

The history teacher unleashes an attempted hidden grin. "Not the answer I'm looking for, kiddo."

Thomas swallows, looking away. He hates this. He hates teachers pretending to be concerned about him. Acting like they care about his wellbeing. It's not real. They're phoney's. All of them.

"I am fine," he repeats, softer, this time. He drops his legs and swings them instead, playing with his hands in his lap. It's awkward, now. Mr Hartman gives him a look that says 'okay, now tell me the truth' and Thomas just _sighs_.

"For me, I'm fine," he ends up blurting out, because Mr Hartman is cool in a way and understands. "Just a bit disoriented, as usual."

"You're not trying," Mr Hartman pushes, leaning forward onto his elbows. "I told you to try. To do your work — Thomas, we're not making progress here. I don't get why you've just given up on yourself. I know it's early in the morning but I've been meaning to talk to you for a while, now. When are you going to start living? Start preparing your future?"

"I don't have one," Thomas replies, rather bluntly. What's the point of this? He literally came in late and now he's getting a lecture on how he's throwing his life way? Fantastic.

"You do, Thomas. You're smarter than you think. You underestimate yourself so much — I just don't know why you won't give it a go. See the difference when you try to change for the better. I know things are hard, for you, but you've got to start working. Paying attention. You're sixteen, now. Almost seventeen, if I'm correct."

Starting to get angry, Thomas shoots the man a glare. "You don't know jack shit about me," he hisses, fiercely. "I'm not in the mood for this, _Barry_. Go find some other student to give a motivational speech to. In the meantime, I'm busy doing absolutely fucking nothing."

And with that, Thomas stands up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

**T U E S D A Y**

Today isn't much better.

Thomas is late, again, and Mr Hartman is waiting for him at the doors, giving him a funny smile that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

This time, Thomas tries not to get so angry. Back in the classroom, he's returned to the days previous position, swinging his legs sat on a desk. Mr Hartman has a class in fifteen minutes. He can last that long.

"You left before I could give you something," Barry Hartman says, kind eyes all over again. Thomas grunts.

"Whatever it is, I don't want it."

"Think of it as a peace offering. Something to look at when you're not feeling your best."

With that, he hands Thomas a keychain.

A fucking keychain.

"For your schoolbag!" He says, cheerfully. Thomas almost laughs at him. But he doesn't. He's not that bad.

"Thanks?" He murmurs, instead, and takes it from him. It's old, doesn't look clean. It's a tiny gold clock on a chain. It's rusty and looks like it was hidden in an attic for fifty years. Thomas wonders where the hell he got it from.

"You'll enjoy it," Mr Hartman says, with a wink. Thomas has no idea what that means.

He gets up to leave the classroom once again, calmer this time. Once he's out the door he hears the friendly male call out to him.

"Don't give up on yourself, Thomas! You have no idea what the future holds. Only time will tell...."

**W E D N E S D A Y**

Thomas has been feeling weird all day. The keychain has claimed its territory on the side of his navy schoolbag, looking out of place and odd. Thomas, like with everything else, doesn't care.

His gut has been having a weird feeling. Not like he's sick, or sore. He just feels weird. Like there's something nagging him. He's anxious, and he has no idea why. It's like, something bad is going to happen.

It's ridiculous. Sat in geography, Thomas fiddles with his pen, tuning out the teacher. His eyes are gazing out the window, unfocused and drowsy. He's tired, too. Long night of doing, once again, absolutely nothing.

Reaching into his schoolbag to grab a bottle of water, Thomas' eyes land on the keychain. He spent ages yesterday just looking at it. Mr Hartman had been so freakishly strange about it. What could be so special about a stupid little keychain that looked like it rolled around in shit?

Nothing. That's it.

Still, he finds himself fiddling with it, turning it this way and that. There's a small button at the top of it, tiny tiny tiny. It can't be pressed, and Thomas' finger lingers over it, pushing on it anyway.

It pops then, so sudden. Thomas frowns a bit as the keychain jingles, then breaks off his bag into his hand. Then he starts to feel even worse. His head starts to spin. His ears start ringing. There's a low throbbing cracking through his skull and his brain feels like it's being torn in two.

What the fuck?

Closing his eyes, Thomas rubs his temple in frustration. A loud, itchy noise is building up, and behind his eyes is starting to sting. Everything is getting louder and his stomach is doing rough backflips. Maybe he's about to pass out. Or die. Or both.

And then, as he expected, everything goes black.

 


	2. two ; L O S T

❝ _far, far away._ ❞

\- _unknown_  

 

**W E D N E S D A Y**

Thomas doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

It's dark. Like, pitch dark. He can't see a thing — yet he's almost one hundred percent positive he's outside.

Breeze tickles his cheeks. Yes. He's most definitely outdoors.

But that's ridiculous. There's no lights — no street lamps. The only source of brightness is coming from the moon itself — which, in Thomas' opinion, is shit.

He's terrified. His heart thumps so loud in his chest it's the only thing he can hear. His body shakes violently, and his eyes are wide and alert, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. He was in a classroom two minutes ago, for fucks sake. How is he outside, in the middle of nowhere, with absolutely no light?

His schoolbag, for some reason, is on his back. It's heavy with books.

Because he's suddenly grown a pair of balls, Thomas clears his throat, swallowing thickly in fear.

"Hello?"

A bird chirps in response. Of course. He wasn't expecting a reply, anyways. He'd laugh at himself, sounding so pathetic, but he's nervous and confused and someone needs to explain to him what the _hell_ just happened right the fuck now.

Despite his humiliation, he tries again.

"Hello? Is uh, is anyone there?"

Once again, wind whistling through the trees is his only reply. Great. Just exactly what he needs.

So, he starts to wander. Across some sort of field.

One foot in front of the other, hands stretched out due to the paranoia in the back of his mind that there's something in front of him, Thomas starts walking. He doesn't know where to. _Fuck_ , he doesn't even know where he is.

He kind of wants to cry. How the fuck did he just — what?

Stumbling all over the place like some drunk guy out of a bar, Thomas hopes to dear lord nobody can see him. He probably looks like an absolute idiot, to put it gently.

Waving his hands around, Thomas almost doesn't hear the voice suddenly yell right in front of him.

"Whoa! Whoa, easy, you'll fall!"

Turning around and whacking someone straight in the face, Thomas groans loudly, in sync with the other persons cry of discomfort.

"S-sorry."

"It's okay," comes the unfamiliar, masculine voice. Thomas quits rubbing at his nose and blinks at the boy in front of him. From what he can see in the darkness, he has dark hair, Asian features.

He has a sheepish smile on his face as he rubs the back of his neck. "My bad, I guess."

Thomas blinks. "Who the fuck are you?"

The boy takes a step backwards in surprise, holding his hands up in surrender. "Easy, tiger. No need to get feisty. Just tryna help a guy out, is all."

Thomas, infuriated all over again, clicks his tongue with impatience. "Not answering my question," he retorts, ignoring the flash of confusion across the other males features. "I'll say it one more time : who the fuck are you?"

Frowning, the Asian crosses his arms. "I'm Minho. Don't need to be such a dick about it. I just saved you from falling down a hill, you know."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Clap clap. Gold star for you. Wanna tell me why the hell there's no light around here?"

Once again, the Asian - Minho - frowns, yet this time it's more in confusion. "What do you mean? Of course there's no light. Do you want to die?"

Now it's Thomas' turn to be confused. "What?"

"I said 'do you want to die,'" Minho repeats, with an undertone of mockery. The trace of sarcasm in his voice pisses Thomas off more than it should.

"Obviously not, you prick! Stop avoiding my question and answer me, for fucks sake."

Thomas hopes he looks intimidating, standing as tall and as strong as he can. Minho doesn't seem to think so, and almost laughs in his face.

"Did you fall and hit your head or somethin'? You forget about the whole war going on, or?"

Thomas' stomach churns horribly. No, no. He can't be serious. No.

"W-war? What are you on about?"

"World War two, dumbass!"

Thomas thinks he might cry. His heart rate speeds up (as if it wasn't pounding outrageously before) and he feels his hands break out into a cold sweat. This can't be real. He's dreaming. He's in class, dreaming.

_Wake up, Thomas. WAKE UP._

"Hello? Are you okay?" Minho waves his hands in front of Thomas' face, who's trying not to collapse in shock. "You're spacing out a little bit. Can you hear me?"

Thomas grunts in reply, shoving Minho away from him and stomping past him childishly. Huffing down the pathway, Thomas groans when he hears Minho recollect himself and run straight after him.

"Hey! Wait up! I think you hit your head. You seem quite a bit out of it."

Ugh. He even talks weird.

"I'm fine!" Thomas calls, hoping to get this boy away from him, but Minho doesn't seem to get the hint. The Asian follows anyways, and Thomas hasn't got the energy to get him off his back.

So, he asks more questions. He may as well, his heads spinning and he needs to sit down and cry, but he needs to know.

"What date is it? Exactly?"

Minho stops, raising his brows again. It's weird how much Thomas has adjusted to the dim light of the luminous moon.

"It's the fourth of September. The war only got declared yesterday. Between Britain and Germany. Did you not hear it? Have you been out, or? I just don't understand how you didn't know -"

"Doesn't matter," Thomas cuts in, getting antsy. This is weird. Too weird. Ugly weird. He doesn't even like thinking about this kind of shit, let alone living it.

So he must be somewhere in England then, which is odd. Minho doesn't have the accent.

"What year is it?"

Minho gapes at him. "You have to be hurt. There's no way —"

"What. Year. Is. It?"

Minho pauses again. His dramatic reactions are starting to irritate Thomas.

"It's uh, it's 1939, but I really think we should get your head checked -"

"I'm fine. Seriously," Thomas butts in again, getting sick of this. His heart drops. 1939. _Fuck_.

Obviously, Minho has a right to be . . . concerned. Thomas, a guy he's never seen before, has just shown up out of the blue, stumbling through a field, and then suddenly he doesn't even know what year it is. Or you know, that there's a fucking _war_ going on. Ridiculous.

He feels queasy again. Maybe he should sit down.

"What are you doing out here anyways?" Minho pipes up again, interrupting his thoughts. Thomas gives him a side eyed glance, too tired to answer questions.

Sighing, he complies. "Lost track of time. My school is far from here. I've been away for a while. Can't find my stuff. I'm a bit tired. I get kind of confused when I'm tired."

That even sounds like bullshit to him, and he cringes.

Minho, who seems like a bit of a scatter brain, nods anyways. "Yeah, yeah. Cool. Okay. As long as you're okay."

Nice, though. Friendly enough.

Thomas, suddenly feeling his stomach squeeze at the realisation he has nowhere to stay for the night, turns to Minho.

"Where do you live?"

Oh god, his questions are downright fucking creepy. Minho should be running as fast as he can.

"Near central square. Just up here. How come?"

Well shit. What's he supposed to say to that?

"No reason. I think I've lost my key to get in to my house, though."

Smooth, Thomas, smooth.

Minho seems like he's thinking, and Thomas hopes he can forget how he talked to him only five minutes ago. Hopefully he offers him a place to stay. Thomas' attitude really isn't great.

"Uh, well, my parents are out tonight, but they'll be back tomorrow for evacuating. You can stay in my house, I guess. It's just me and my sister, Mina."

Thomas wants to cry in relief.

"Dude — you are _so_ nice. Thanks so much, man."

Minho nods, a little stiffly. Maybe he doesn't get Thomas' slang. It's fine.

All Thomas needs is a good nights rest so he can figure out this mess tomorrow.

Soon enough, they're outside a small, stone house. It's cute, in an old fashioned way. The windows are long and it looks like an old little London house. Thomas decides that he likes it the moment he lays eyes on it.

Soon enough, they're inside, and Thomas steps a little awkwardly beside Minho as a young girl comes barrelling down the stairs, leaping into Minho's arms.

"You're home!" She cries, happily. Her hair is dark, like her brothers, and she has the same devious look on her face. Sweet, but devilish.

"Mina, this is Thomas. Thomas, my sister, Mina."

Thomas smiles at her politely. It's the least he can do — Minho's already helped him out a pretty great deal.

"Hi, Mina," he greets, leaning down to shake her hand. She complies with ease, not shy in the least.

"He's saying with us tonight," Minho tells his sister, as they walk into the kitchen. It's small, classy. Clean, too, with wooden cupboards. There's a small, 4 seater table and Thomas smiles at how cosy it is.

He notices a suitcase open on the floor though, clothes scattering out of it. "Going somewhere?" He grins, but frowns when he gets a grim reply.

"Yeah," Mina mutters, a foul mood taking over her previous gleeful one. Minho gives Thomas a funny look, which he responds with a questioning one.

"Were evacuating tomorrow. I told you," Minho says, and Thomas tries not to get frustrated.

"Evacuating? Like leaving?" He counters, watching as the pair nod miserably. "Where?"

Minho rolls his eyes. "How would I know? Wherever it is, it's safer; Hitler won't drop bombs there. Hopefully," Minho says looking worn out. The two of them seem exhausted, and Thomas wonders how long this has been going on for.

"Oh. Right," he murmurs, trying to act like he gets it. He doesn't. He hasn't got a fucking clue of what's going on.

"Why are you packing downstairs, Mina? All your things are in your room," Minho asks, grabbing a blanket to toss it over the sofa in the living room. Thomas hopes it's a makeshift bed for him.

"I didn't want to be alone upstairs," Mina replies, sullenly, and it's then Thomas realises just how young she is.

Minho nods, and the young girl scampers, leaving the two in piece.

"She's usually much chattier," Minho says, then. He grabs a few cushions and shakes them, laying them down neatly on the sofa. "She's just nervous for tomorrow. She doesn't want to leave."

"I don't blame her," Thomas hums, in all honesty. He usually doesn't really show sympathy for anyone — even is own sister — but he feels bad for Mina, he really does. It's not easy getting sent away from your parents.

Especially during a war.

Minho gives Thomas a small smile, before gesture towards the sofa. "Get cosy, it's really late and I have to finish packing. Have you got all your stuff for tomorrow?"

Again, Thomas is left clueless.

Minho shakes his head with a somewhat fond smile. "Your things. For evacuating?"

Thomas nods and tries to pretend like he understands what Minho is talking about.

"Yeah. I got all my stuff."

"Everything on the list?"

Thomas mind is blank once again. There's a fucking list? Really?

"Yep. Ticked off and everything."

Minho nods in response, awkwardly wiping his hands against his trousers. "Well, alright. Goodnight, I suppose. I'll wake you in the morning."

With that, he turns and leaves, grabbing Mina's suitcase and zipping it closed. Thomas sinks into the sofa, eyes and mind wide awake. There's no way he can possibly sleep. He has too many questions.

How did he get here? How is this even possible? Surely this can't be real. This has to be some kind of joke. Or a dream. There's no way he's really in the year 1939, at the beginning of a war. No way. No.

Even so, he has to find a way back home. There has to be a way to get back to the future. He can't be stuck here forever. He won't. He'll figure something out.

Closing his eyes, Thomas allows himself to slip away into dreamland, where there, things finally start to feel safe.

**T H U R S D A  Y**

Thomas wakes up to the sound of a suitcase zip and unfamiliar voices.

He sits up on the sofa, bleary eyed and sleepy. He cranes his head to be greeted with an Asian couple, young and stressed looking. They're both pacing rapidly around the kitchen, which is connected to the living room, hectic and frantic.

Today's the big day then, huh.

Thomas rubs his eyes, throwing the blanket off of him and standing up off the sofa. His head is still spinning and he's half surprised and a little disappointed to find himself still stuck here. It was real. It _is_ real.

Minho is trying to calm down a panicked looking Mina, who is close to having a meltdown. Thomas feels like an awkward intruder and he just really wants to go home.

Shifting from foot to foot, Thomas attempts a smile when Minho's parents turn to see him standing there like an idiot. Both of them have a blank reaction, only turning to their son to give him a questioning glance.

"Uh, right, this is Thomas. Thomas, these are my parents, Cheryl and Carlos. Uh, he lost his key to his house and he needed somewhere to stay last night. He seemed a bit out of it so . . .”

Minho's description of him doesn't exactly give Thomas a good first impression, but he smiles toothily and holds out his hand to shake. Hopefully it's enough.

The woman smiles first. "Hello, dear. Do your parents know you're here?"

Fuck.

"I live with my aunt," Thomas bullshits, wondering where the hell he’s just got that from. "My parents died a while ago and she's been taking care of me ever since. She knows I'm safe."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Cheryl immediately rushes to give her condolences, and Thomas gives her a small smile again. Shit. Now he feels like an ass.

"Your aunt? What's her name?" Carlos joins in, with similar big eyes and an intelligent look about him.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

"Uh, Polly," Thomas blurts out. What?

"Polly who?"

"Selfridge."

Thomas needs to shut up right about now. He's digging his own grave at this stage.

"Can't say I've heard of her," Cheryl thoughtfully, before flashing another classic reassuring mom grin. "Are you all set for today? Got all your things?"

"Yeah," Thomas replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry to intrude. Especially on a day like this."

"Not to worry, not to worry," Cheryl shakes her head with a warm smile. "Any friend of Minho's is a friend of ours."

Mina nods along to this, hand slipping into her mothers. They seem like a sweet, happy little family. Thomas hates the world for having to tear them apart.

As if on cue, Carlos coughs, a solemn look on his face. "Alright. We should leave. It's getting late."

It's about nine o clock in the morning — but Thomas keeps his mouth shut.

Mina clutches her mothers hand very tightly, the other gripping the handle of her small suitcase. She has fear in her eyes and Thomas can practically feel her nerves. It's not right. This can't be right. She's too young.

Carlos ruffles Minho's hair, unlocking the front door. He hands Minho, Cheryl and Mina boxes, all of them holding them securely. Minho has Minas stacked on his own, as she seems to be occupied clutching onto her mother. The five of them pile out of the house, Thomas snatching up his schoolbag on the way.

Curious as to what's inside them, Thomas eyes the cardboard boxes stacked in Minho's arms. In fact, as soon as they're outside and strolling through the streets, Thomas notices just about everyone is walking with a box in their hands.

What the fuck?

He doesn't ask, because he's sick of making himself look stupid and he has to blend in somehow. His clothing and mannerisms are odd enough — he has to act, for now.

As they're walking along the streets and entering the town square, Thomas feels someone tapping his shoulder. Turning to face the culprit, he gulps when he sees a warden, stern and harsh.

"Now, young man. Where is your gas mask? Don't you know the rules of carrying it with you at all times?"

Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit.

Thomas tries to swallow down his fear as Minho and his family turn to look at him, surprised. They hadn't noticed his lack of equipment.

"Uh," Thomas starts, trying and trying to think of something that doesn't sound ridiculous. "I wasn't at school the day they were given out, so I never got one."

Smooth, Thomas. Smooth.

The warden lets out a long sigh, shaking his head. "Come with me, then," he orders, turning to leave with no room for discussion.

Thomas turns to Minho and his family, nodding at them. "Keep going," he says, trying to smile. "I'll catch up in a bit."

And with that, he follows the warden to a nearby building. The man makes a gesture for Thomas to wait outside, so he shifts from foot to foot, wondering if he's in trouble. Is he going to get fined? Jailed?

Soon enough, the warden returns with a box and a knowing smile. "Take care of this," he says, with sincerity in his voice. "It'll protect you."

"Thank you," Thomas murmurs, hoping the gratitude is clear in his expression. It's only been one day, and yet, the people here have been treating him with a kind of respect he doesn't get at home.

It's . . . nice.

The warden nods and gives him a wink, and Thomas grins and turns away, retracing his steps to get back to Minho. He doesn't know anyone else, after all.

Soon enough, he spots the Asian family, at the back of a long, long line of scrawny and whining children. They all look petrified. Skinny and snot-nosed and dressed in dirty clothing, with weird looking labels on them.

Minho and Mina have yet to catch up with the group, bidding their goodbyes. Thomas keeps his distance, watching as Mina starts to sob loudly at the farewell. His heart breaks at the sight of it.

After bone crushing hugs and kisses, Minho's parents turn to leave, whispering reassurances to both their children. Cheryl has tears in her eyes and Carlos gives Minho a pat on the back. Soon, the siblings are left alone, just like the rest of the line.

Thomas feebly joins the end, standing behind Minho, who has a downcast expression and full eyes, hand gripping Minas.

"I'm sorry," Thomas murmurs, leaning down to give Minas back a rub. "It's not easy."

"It's for the best. We're safer this way," Minho sniffs, holding up his chin. But Thomas can see. He can see Minho is trying to hold back his fear, but he needs to be strong. For Mina, and maybe, for himself.

It's not long before they enter a railway station, stopping in the entrance hall. There's what Thomas guesses are teachers roaming up and down the line, examining the children.

A man that appears to be in his thirties stops at Thomas, a funny look on his face as he eyes him up and down.

Oh for fucks sake, here we go.

"Where's your labels?"

Thomas almost chokes on his own spit. "My what?"

"Your labels. Look at the other children. None of you three have any. Who are you?"

Minho takes a step forward, taking one for the team. "I'm Minho Park, and that's my sister Mina. We're registered, but we didn't get any labels on arrival."

The man looks irritated. He turns around and motions for someone to come over.

A short woman appears, round face and beady, tiny eyes. "Give them labels and pencils please, Alison. Write your names and copy off the other details from somebody next to you."

Thomas thanks Alison once she's handed her label to him, and then they're left alone. Minho, as a champ, taps a boys shoulder in front of them, and Thomas' eyes widen when he turns around.

He's got fluffy, blonde hair that sticks up in tufts across his head. His eyes are large and brown, with a small nose and sharp jawline. He has a youngish look about him, and Thomas tries not to stare.

He's kind of really gorgeous.

"Alright mate?" He says, and Thomas tries not to snort at the accent. He's been hearing it all day today, but for some reason, he likes it from this guy.

"Yeah, could I copy down your label, please?" Minho asks, and Thomas watches curiously as the boy gives a sheepish grin.

"I, uh. I didn't write down what we were supposed to," he admits, and Thomas decides he likes him.

The boy pulls the label from around his neck and chuckles a little as he displays it to the three:

_just feed me please_

It's not comedy gold, but Thomas lets out a little laugh anyways. The boy gives him a big grin, and Thomas feels his heart shift.

"What's your name?" He asks, softly, and the boy rolls his eyes with a smile.

"I'm Newt."

Mina, who was sniffling, suddenly lets out a giggle, cheering up immensely. "What kind of name is that?"

Luckily, Newt isn't offended, and giggles with her. "An odd one!"

Thomas smiles at their playful banter, as the line continues to move on. Eager to keep talking to him, he decides to introduce himself.

"Uh, well, I'm Thomas. That's Minho, and that's Mina."

Newt smiles at them in greeting, waving funnily enough. Thomas decides he really likes him.

Soon enough, they're boarding the train. The four of them find a little compartment in the back, and sit down with exhausted sighs. They've got a long trip ahead of them.

Minho and Mina sit side by side, so Newt is sat comfortably next to Thomas, who honestly, is more than happy to share.

This isn't so bad. Mina falls asleep sometime around the half an hour mark, wrecked behind words. The train is warm, and most of the children begin to drift off. It's exciting, to Thomas. Here he is, on a train with people he's just met and in the year 1939. It's crazy, he can't believe it's real.

Soon enough, Minho, Thomas and Newt seem to be the only ones awake. They have a hushed conversation and whisper about things Thomas would never talk about with anyone, and he finds it fascinating how he oddly enjoys it.

They talk about their hopes and dreams, their fears. Minho, ambitious and sarcastic, is afraid of losing his loved ones and he wants to become a doctor someday. Newt, a little more introverted, hates the thought of being left alone, and he has high hopes for becoming a writer. He wants to tell stories, about himself, the world.

Usually, Thomas would never associate himself with guys like Minho and Newt. Whether it be their funny old ways of talking or the way they chat so openly about things that Thomas finds vulnerable, he isn't sure, but he can't quite figure out what makes them just that bit different to him. He feels like he fits in with them, in a weird, backward kind of way.

Newt is quiet and reserved, but he has a twinkle in his eyes and a bright personality. He seems clever and has that sidekick personality and Thomas feels like he'd be a modern day cool guy that always has your back.

Minho, who Thomas has noticed has a witty and sharp sense of humour, would be your classic high school jock. He's got leadership qualities and always seems to take control.

Thomas doesn't know them. Not really. They're having useless chitchat about things that don't matter, but he likes it. He likes them. He likes this open space of being able to talk about things they won't laugh at him for. Things that you just don't talk about where he's from.

He, as lost and as confused as he is, is glad to have found them. Maybe, this won't be as badly has he thought.

He considers them good guys to hang around with. He's lucky to have found them.

Nah, he considers them as something he's never had before.

He considers them as friends.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have chapter 2 hehe  
> the ball is rolling now and the story is kicking off, so hopefully u all enjoy and bare with me on this
> 
> i'm going to make his as sad and as heart wrenching as possible, so we'll see what happens in upcoming chapters ;)
> 
> i hope u all love this as much as i love writing it
> 
> ily all very much
> 
> \- bee


	3. three ; N E W

❝  _It's time to begin, isn't it?_ ❞

—  _unknown_

  
**T H U R S D A Y**

It's been a long time and Thomas is tired.

Minho has talked himself to sleep and Newt has dozed off as well, both too exhausted to continue to chatter about mindless things that aren't important.

Thomas, warm and drowsy and a little stuffy headed - has skipped the idea of trying to get a few winks in. He's focused on how he could have gotten here. How he can leave. He's come to the conclusion that this is, yes, in fact, very much real, and he needs to figure out a way to get back home.

Turning his head to look at Newt, who's resting his head on one knee pulled to his chest, Thomas smiles a little bit. Once he figures out how he got here it can't be too difficult to suss out how he'll get home - and then maybe,  _maybe_ , he can kick back and relax. This is a once in a lifetime experience - who knew time travel was even possible?

He still has that itching, paranoid feeling in the back of his head that this must be some sort of practical joke, or maybe he's been drugged and placed in some weird stimulation, but for the most part, he's accepted that this is what's happened to him. It's up to him how he'll deal with it.

A part of him wants to thump himself and try to get home ASAP - but the other wants to wait and see what happens. He wants to experience this, live in a time that doesn't exist anymore. Who knows what's going to happen?

Looks like he'll have to wait and find out.

After a short while, Mina slowly rises, blinking rapidly as she lifts her head off Minho's arm. Her eyes latch onto Thomas' and he gives her a reassuring smile.

"We're not here, yet. You can go back to sleep."

Mina shakes her head. "No. I'm not sleepy anymore."

Thomas stifles a laugh. He's forgotten how funny kids can be. These kids - they're innocent, naive, a little lost and terribly frightened, but still kinda funny. Mina is going to need her big brother more than anything now, and Thomas hopes that things will be okay for them.

She sits up and rubs her face, looking around curiously. "I'm nervous," she says, suddenly, and Thomas tilts his head sideways. "I miss my mom and dad already. What if I never see them again?"

Her eyes start to well with tears and she starts sniffling, and Thomas panics. Shit. Fuck. What's he supposed to say to that?

"No! No, don't cry, Mina! I'm sure your parents will be just fine, okay? You've got nothing to worry about. Think of it like a holiday. Or an adventure. This might even be fun. You'll see."

That, apparently.

Mina swallows thickly and nods at his attempted comfort. "Alright," she mumbles, and closes her eyes again. She's easy, for a kid.

It's not long before there's a piercing screech and Thomas feels the jolt of the train coming to a stop. There's a loud, ear-piercing whistle and it rouses the children on board. Newt snaps up, bewildered by the sound, and Thomas tries to hold back a snort at his sudden reaction.

Minho awakens too, shrugging Mina gently off him. They wait for the children in front of them to pass by before they get out of their seats to exit the train. Once they've grabbed their suitcases and gas masks and whatnot, they're off the train, greeted with smoke and the loud noises of people busying around the station.

The evacuees are ordered to line up, and Thomas stands in between Newt and Minho, curious as to what's going on. It's once he realises that the people at the station are eyeing  the children and even pointing at a few, that they're being showed. Like a fucking display show, or some shit.

Not to mention it's fucking  _freezing_.

Thomas' teeth are chattering and he wishes that he had his coat. He's never been so cold in his life. What the fuck kind of wackass weather is this?

Newt is shivering next to him, staring at his shoes in a desperate attempt to hide himself. There's men and women and old people casually striding up and down, taking their pick of the many children waiting to be whisked away to cosy homes and hot soup.

An old lady appears in front of Mina, and Minho grips her hand tightly. She taps Minas shoulder, totally ignoring the boy beside her.

"Would you like to come with me?"

Mina shakes her head vigorously, nodding towards Minho. "He must come with me too," she declares, voice strong and independent for such a young girl. Thomas admires her, for that.

The lady looks at Minho then, who softens his expression in hopes of looking less patronising. "I'm her brother. I can't be separated from her," he tells her, and he sounds desperate and hopeful. She'd be cruel to turn him down.

She smiles kindly. "I suppose I have room for two."

Minho smiles gratefully at her, and turns to Thomas and Newt. He looks disappointed to be leaving them - but it would be foolish to think all of them could stay together.

"I'll see you both soon, hopefully. School, or somewhere, maybe. Good luck."

With that, he grabs his suitcase, gas mask, and Minas hand, and the three of them walk away, disappearing within the flock of people. Thomas is kind of sad to see them go. He really hopes this isn't the last time he sees them. That'd be  _really_  shitty.

Newt sneezes beside him, looking miserable if anything else. Thomas remembers what he said on the train about being left alone, and he nudges his shoulder playfully.

"Cheer up, man," he grins, teasingly. "You and me can stick together. How about that?"

Newt grins at him and Thomas feels his stomach do flip flops. This is weird, again. Not ugly weird, but still, weird.

Everything looks so  _old_. Thomas feels like he's stepped inside a picture of his history textbook, and it's totally, totally bizarre. The clothing everyone's wearing, the train, the platform, the atmosphere. It's so crazy but for some reason, it's starting to feel not as unfamiliar as before.

Thomas gets antsy watching children being chosen left and right, and Newt is fidgeting anxiously beside him. They two of them stand as close as possible, trying to hint they want to stay together. That part itself is insane — Thomas met this boy only a few hours ago and yet he won't be separated from him.

Weird.

A man strolls over then, who has been watching them for quite some time. He has an old fashioned cap on, with a buttoned coat and a wrinkled face that looks honest and gentle.

"You boys - you wouldn't mind coming along with me, would you?"

His tone is soft and his accent is a little scruffy, not like the posh London accent that radiates off of Newt. He seems especially sweet and Thomas gives him a large smile.

"We'd love to. Wouldn't we, Newt?"

He gives the boy a slight nudge again, which gets a nod out of him. Thomas rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Newts silent response, and beams at the man, who chuckles in return.

Gripping his gas mask box a little tighter, Thomas nods to Newt and the two of them set off behind the man. They walk in sync across the platform, and Thomas is relieved to finally get away from the loud commotion and frantic energy of the station.

Soon enough, after they've passed through the small village, they're walking down a dusty little lane towards a cottage. It's located just before a herd of fields, with oak trees and pretty red flowers littering the grass. It's so peaceful and quiet, Thomas loves it.

The cottage, like everything else, is old fashioned. It's not, by any means, a tumbledown exterior with broken windows and graffitied doors - but it does have vines decorating the walls and a bricked roof. It's an antique white, neat looking. It looks like something out of a storybook and Thomas adores it.

On the journey here, himself and Newt discovered that the mans name is Charles Bradley, he's happily married and working on a farm. No wonder he had chosen two, tall and partially strong boys.

However, Thomas likes him. He's an easy conversation starter and always says the right things. He's well spoken, friendly, and Thomas has a feeling he's respected among the village.

Newt has opened up a little as well, speaking freely without any source of caution, and Thomas cherishes the sparks in his eyes.

As they get to the front door, Charles doesn't have a chance to turn the knob before a woman suddenly pulls the door open with such force that Thomas and Newt both jump back a bit.  
She has a gleam in her eyes and she lets out an excited squeal.

"Hello, hello, hello! Welcome! Oh, Charles, you've brought back such lovely, handsome boys!"

Thomas and Newt glance at each other, smiling sheepishly.

"Oh, do come in! I have stew just ready for everyone. I'm sure you'll need it after such a long day - you must be  _exhausted_. Come along, then!"

Charles guides them inside, and Thomas is greeted with a small, wooden table, with a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It's small and sweet, and kind of surreal.

Himself and Newt get seated at the table, and the rich scent of the stew lingers in the air, smelling delicious. Charles sits himself opposite Newt, unfolding the paper that had been in front of him.

The woman turns around, handing them bowls. She has rosy cheeks and white hair - exactly like a storybook granny. She doesn't look all that old, and Thomas doesn't doubt she's lost an ounce of her agility, either.

"Oh, pardon me boys," she laughs a little, wiping down her hands on her apron. "My name is Margaret, but you can call me Maggie."

She says it with a friendly wink, and Thomas decides he likes her too.

"Well, I'm Thomas, and this is Newt."

Maggie's face scrunches up in confusion at the sound of his voice. "Where are you from, dear? You sound awfully like an American." There's no distaste on her tongue, but she seems a bit skeptical, of him.

Newt also gives him a curious glance, munching away happily on his stew. Thomas tries not to sound like he's bullshitting, again.

"Oh, yeah, my parents are American. Well, they were. I had to move in with my aunt after they died — she's the closest relative I have so it only made sense for me to move here."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't know," Maggie says, sympathetically, reaching over to pat his hand. Thomas smiles kindly at her as he tries not to pull his hand away.

There's still an odd look on Newts face, but Thomas ignores him and wolfs down his meal — he's starving, after all. The train had been hot and stuffy and it'd been some walk to get to here.

They babble on for a while, before they clear their plates and thank them for everything. Then, they bid goodnight, and disappear down the dark, cold hallways to the bedrooms.

"Such good boys," Maggie murmurs, watching them leave. Charles nods, and the two turn to clean the dishes.

-   
-

The bedroom is small but cosy, acquainted for two. There's grandma curtains and the floor is creaky, with white iron railings on the two single beds. There's a large, wooden wardrobe in the corner that Thomas guesses he and Newt will have to share.

It's nice. Old, but it smells fresh and soapy. Newt chucks his suitcase on the bed closest to the window, before flopping lazily on it. His cap falls onto his forehead, and he lets out a sigh.

Thomas spends a little more time admiring the room. He casually drops his school bag, before exploring what little furniture is on display. There's a wooden chair in the corner. Not a rocking chair, or anything. Just, a chair.

Weird. Again.

Then, his attention is drawn to the paintings on the wall. They're all horses or old buildings, but they're brilliant. It's not a house decoration that he'd find in his own home, but he likes them.

It's starting to get dark outside, so Thomas ditches his shoes and climbs into the tiny iron bed that he literally doesn't fit - but he's so tired, he doesn't even care.

Today was big. A lot happened. He's still confused and has no idea how he got here, or why Minho and his family treated him with such kindness or why he wants to stay with them. He has no idea what's hidden behind Newt's shining eyes - but he'll figure it out.

He's got time, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's uppp
> 
> i know this seems a bit on the short side but i'm hoping to be able to update his faster with shorter chapters, unlike 'marked as his' which takes me fucking forever lol  
> but i hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and get excited because the REAL shit starts next chapter ;)
> 
> prepare to have ur hearts flip ladies and gents
> 
> i love u all


	4. four ; M Y S T E R Y

❝  _Escape the ordinary._ ❞  
—  _unknown_

**F R I D A Y**

Thomas is awoken by a pillow walloping him in the face, and he grabs it and chucks it at whoever pelted it at him. He's rewarded with a thumping sound and a fit of giggles afterwards. He somehow recognises it as Newts, and he blinks away the sleep in his eyes to be greeted with the sight of the blonde boy doubled over in laughter.

It's sweet, really.

Newt scampers from the room then, and Thomas is left in his clothes from yesterday, feeling gross and all sluggish. His jeans are uncomfortable and he's hot and itchy and irritated.

It's then he realises that,  _fuck_ , he has no clothes.

Literally, nothing.

Shit. Shit, shit  _shit_.

What the hell is he supposed to wear? He's got nothing but what he has on him. His schoolbag is useless as fuck, and it'll sound absolutely ridiculous if he tries to explain another bullshit story about how he happened to  _forget_  to  _pack_.

Rubbing at his face tiredly, Thomas stifles a yawn as he paces the room. He glances curiously at the large china bowl placed on the window sill, a jug sat nicely on it. That wasn't there the night before — what is it?

Just then, Newt comes barging in again. He's got this old fashioned cap on that suits him, oddly wordless as he throws a flannel, towel, and pile of clothing at Thomas. He still has that cheeky twinkle in his eyes and Thomas wonders how much he really knows.

"Gotcha' some stuff. Knew you didn't have nothin' in that luggage of yours. What's it doing bringing a tiny bag like that? You're really quite peculiar, you know."

Damn. That's a mouthful.

Scoffing, Thomas rolls his eyes. "Thanks for that," he ditches the clothes and turns to gesture at the jug. "What's this for?"

Newt shakes his head. "You didn't answer my question, you berk."

Thomas doesn't know what kind of fucking insult that is, but he pretends to be offended anyways for the sake of it. "Excuse me? Maybe I don't wanna answer your stupid question. For your information — not that it's any of your business — I didn't exactly have an ideal time to pack. So no, I don't have a lot of shit with me. Boo fuckin' hoo."

Newt looks a little taken aback, and frowns a bit. Once again, Thomas' bad attitude has taken over.

However, the Londoner doesn't seem to back down. "Alright, mate. Don't get snippy. I'm just pointing out  _facts_."

"Oh yeah? I don't care. Piss off while I sort out how to use this stupid  _fucking_  jug -"

Newt rolls his eyes. "Shut your trap, Thomas."

He then turns to pick up the bowl and jug, handing it to him with a raised eyebrow. "I don't know where you were raised, or if you're some sort of high hat that's used to something better — but this is how you wash in the country."

Demonstrating, he pours the water from jug into the bowl, dipping in the flannel and soaking it. Then, squeezing the excess water back into the bowl, he hands it to Thomas.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you can't figure out the rest," he says, almost teasingly. "But I'll hope for now that you can suss out what happens next. There's soap in that broken wash basin under the chair."

He leaves then, and Thomas is surprised he even bothered to stay and help him out. He's so hot tempered - it's a wonder anyone has the patience to deal with him.

It doesn't take him long to use the flannel to wash his body — not as long as he expected, at least. Jumping into a hot steamy shower would have been a hell of a lot easier, but clearly, times are different and that's not an option.

It's when he goes to get the clothes on that he finds out there's an issue.

Well, multiple, issues.

For starters, whatever those trouser things are — they're jack-shit awful. They're all baggy and long and wide, and a gross beige colour. They look like grandpa pants and Thomas  _hates_  grandpa pants.

The jumper is even worse. It's like the same material as an ugly christmas sweater — but it's  _short_  sleeved and the pattern is like a load of diamonds. Not to mention the fucking braces attached to the pants — what is he, Bob the fucking builder?

There's a white vest beneath the pile, and long socks that Thomas knows just by  _looking_  at them that they're itchy. There's brown, ugly, clobby, heavy looking shoes, worn and kind of falling apart. He can't really stick to his own though, if he wants to blend in.

Then, as Thomas just starts to feel like he may as well just end his life — he finds a shirt. It's cuffed high up the sleeves and baggy and greyish — but holy hell, it's better than the fucking sweater.

He throws that on, over the vest, tugging the pants over a pair of white breeches — that feel  _so_  uncomfortable — and leaving the braces hanging by his side. He probably looks ridiculous but at this stage, he doesn't really care.

He rolls up the end of the trousers, cuffing them at his ankles so they're not hanging down as loose, and hopes it's enough.

Bounding down the stairs, he's greeted by Newt and Maggie, who are both setting the table and chatting as if they've been friends all their lives.

"Oh, good, I was just about to call you! I hope you don't mind using Charles' clothes — Newt mentioned that you packed lightly and I did my best."

Thomas, suddenly grateful for her, gives a warm smile. "Thank you, Maggie," he says, earnestly, earning a sweet beam in return. It's a wonder she's so kind to him, and seems unbothered by all his shit. Makes everything a whole lot easier.

She doesn't question his styling choice, either, and Newt raises a brow but doesn't say anything. Lucky for him, because Thomas isn't feeling generous today, clearly.

There's an egg and lettuce sandwich on a plate next to Newt's, and Thomas sits himself down and tries not to think about how he hates eggs. Eggs. Fuck. Gross.

He eats it anyway, trying not to gag. Maggie doesn't seem to notice, and hums away happily to herself around the kitchen.

"Are you excited for school? I'm sure it might be different to yours at home — but there's no harm in that!" She says after some time, and Thomas nearly chokes on his nasty ass egg sandwich.

_School?_

School wasn't a part of the plan — what the hell? No fucking way. This can't get any weirder. Now he has to go to  _school_  in 1939? Fuck off.

Newt seems chirpy as hell, munching away happily. If Thomas didn't know any better, he'd say the blonde was excited for school. The thought makes him feel exhausted, but Newt's used to this kind of shit. He knows what's going on.

It's not long before the two are at the front door, waving goodbye to Maggie with their gas masks in hand. She'd given them coats — they're big and bulky and ugly but they fit. Thomas has his schoolbag for kicks, and Newt keeps eyeing it curiously.

"What did you bring, anyway? You've got bloody nothing that was on the government list I'll guess — how've you come this far is beyond me."

Thomas has a funny feeling he won't be able to keep many secrets from Newt. He's the only one so far that's suspicious of him, and Thomas thought he was doing an OK job of blending in.

Clearly not.

He shrugs, trying to play it off. "School stuff. My par —  _aunt_  really cares about my education. She told me that whoever I was staying with could give me clothes and to just pack all my school things instead."

Fuck. Newt totally heard his slip up.

Thankfully, he doesn't say anything, but there's the faintest of smiles on his face. "Right. Okay."

Thomas drops the subject, uncomfortable talking about himself. Him and Newt didn't talk at all last night, and hopefully he can find out some more things about the Londoner tonight. He seems different. Not from-the-future different — but he seems way ahead of his time.

The village school isn't far from Charles' and Maggie's cottage, and it isn't all that big either. There's a small yard where children are skipping, playing, throwing stones. Rowdy boys are fighting and the older kids look bored out of their minds. The school itself looks, like everything else, old fashioned.

The bell rings and the children start pouring inside the small building, and Thomas starts searching frantically for Minho and Mina. They have to be here. Surely —

"Thomas, Newt!"

Thank the Lord.

Minho has a big grin on his face, looking well. He's showered and his hair is all soft and fluffy. Mina's long, dark locks are woven into two plaits, and she looks well rested and her eyes are shining. She has a little black dress on, accompanied by a collared shirt and a cardigan, and knee high socks.

Minho's outfit is similar to Thomas' own, and Thomas grins when he sees the braces hanging down his side as well. Looks like it's not totally weird not to have them on.

"You're here!" Minho says, once they're close enough. Newt let's out a chuckle beside Thomas, clearly excited to see them. "Where else would we be?" He says, and leans town to tickle Mina.

"You two got kept together?" Minho ask, and Thomas nods, with a fond smile. "This guy called Charles took us both. He's got a wife called Maggie and she's really sweet. We got real lucky."

Minho lets out a happy sigh. "Yeah, us too."

They're inside the school then, and they pile into the classroom. Thomas almost forgot that this isn't the same as school back home, and he's a bit taken aback at the sight of the room.

The desks, as expected, are long and wide and accompanied by benches. There's two people at each bench and desk, and Thomas notes that all the older kids are sat at the back, and youngest at the front. There's a male teacher at the top of the room, screaming at everyone that dares to talk or move.

The room is silent and the wooden floorboards creek as Thomas, Newt and Minho make their way to the back of the room, while Mina stays at the front. Newt and Thomas squeeze in to a desk, and Minho sits in across from them in the middle row, next to a freckled ginger kid that doesn't glance at him as he sits down.

It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Thomas has no idea how this teacher is supposed to teach a room full of students from five to seventeen, but he sits there and hopes that he won't die of boredom.

First, the entire class has to practice taking off and putting on their gas masks. The process is exhausting and Thomas' face is hot and sweaty. The stink of rubber makes him feel sick and it's  _fucking_  forever before they can finally place the damn things back into their boxes.

The teacher starts putting equations up on the chalk board for the older kids, and Thomas fiddles with the ink pen and sheet of paper. He's pretty sure the guy has no intentions of going around to check everyone's work, but everyone's actually doing what they're told and he doesn't wanna look bad.

Then, as the teacher, or Mr. Rodgers, starts placing the answers up on the board, Newt slowly raises his hand and lets out a small cough. Thomas watches curiously as Mr. Rodgers turns around with a glare.

"You. At the back. What do you want?"

Newt doesn't so much as blink at his harsh tone. "My apologies, sir, but you've got an error in your spelling. You forgot the 'i' in 'estimate', I just thought I'd let you know — "

But Mr. Rodger is furious, face beet red and hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are white. "How _dare_ you." Spit flies out of his mouth.

Fuck. He's  _seething_.

Newt, unfazed, simply blinks at him. Thomas almost laughs at his obliviousness. "My intentions weren't to insult you, sir."

However, the middle aged male with a crooked nose and sinister eyes doesn't seem to take what Newt said into consideration. His greasy hair is combed back, and his teeth are a stunning white. It's surprising.

Thomas remembers one time he saw a rat curled up on his path. This guy doesn't look like a rat, but he's still thinking :  _snake_.

He charges for Newt, and the entire classroom draws in a breath. Thomas tries not to glare as the teacher roughly grabs Newt's collar, hauling him out of the desk. It's then Thomas comes to a sickening realisation that he has a wooden ruler in grasp.

"Hold out your hand," He orders, authority sharpening his tone. Newt actually raises his eyebrow, holding out his hand with no argument or sign of fear.

 _Dang_.

Then, without any source of mercy, Mr. Rodgers embeds three, large red wheels onto Newt.

_Whack, whack, whack._

Thomas can hear the sound of the ruler whipping Newts hand — and  _fuck_ , it sounds painful. It even sounds like it stings, and the harsh crunch of it on Newts pale, soft palm makes Thomas' blood boil.

Newt doesn't even so much as  _flinch_.

"Buckle up, boy," Mr. Rodger hisses, spitefully, and Thomas wants to punch his ugly little face in. "I'll be keeping an eye on you. You impeccable, dirty little pig."

Newt is silent.

Thomas turns his gaze to Minho's, and they catch each others eye for a moment. Mina is turned around in her seat, eyes wide with fear. All of the younger children look absolutely petrified, and Thomas swallows the bile in his throat.

Minho is glaring so furiously — if looks could kill, Mr. Rodgers would literally collapse and die on the spot. Thomas wishes he would.

Said man returns to the board, and continues shouting at anyone who even breathes loudly. Newt sits down with a stony expression, clenching and unclenching his sore hand, wistfully.

Thomas wants to reach out to hold it for a second, but that's ridiculous so he doesn't. He tries to get Newt to look at him so he can give him a reassuring smile, but the blonde boy simply stays glaring at his thighs.

It's not long before it's lunch, and Newt practically bolts out of his seat, Minho and Mina following after him. Thomas has to fight himself not to stay back just to punch the dickhead of a teacher in the face — so he hurries out of the classroom and into the courtyard.

Maggie had mentioned something about coming home for lunch, so once Thomas catches up to the bunch he gestures for Newt to follow him. He gives Minho a knowing look and they silently agree to talk about it later.

Newt is fuming the entire way back to the cottage, eyes blazed with fire and a temper in his walk. Stomp, more like, but that sounds a bit childish.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

Okay, then. Bit of a blunt reply.

"You can rant, if you want. He's an asshole."

"Yeah, I know, Thomas."

Newt picks up his stride, his long legs walking further and further from Thomas. He's upset, clearly, but he's taking it like a champ. Thomas gets the horrible feeling that he's used to this kind of thing.

Speeding up, he shifts his gas mask into one arm and grabs Newt's elbow, forcing the blonde to turn and look at him. Once again, Newt's eyes hold a mystery. He looks a little lost — and yet like he knows everything at the same time. It's like, it's like they hold so many secrets and fears that he's sworn not to tell. But Newt could tell a story with those eyes. He knows too much not to.

"Is your hand okay?"

Newt sighs, then, and suddenly he looks worn out. "Yes, Thomas. My hand is fine."

Thomas doesn't believe him for a second. "Maggie might have something for it?"

They're outside the cottage now, and said woman greets them with a cheerful smile. Both boys wave back just as happily, and she turns inside, satisfied.

Newt turns to Thomas with a pleading look.

"Don't tell."

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he can't say no.

"I won't."

—  
—

After a couple more, boring, long as hell hours of school, Thomas, Newt, Minho and Mina walk back towards the meadows together. Newt is still in a sour mood, but he's quiet and isn't making it obvious.

Mina is skipping along happily to herself, and Thomas realises that she's adjusted really well for being so young. Minho had told him that she's, in fact, nine, but that's still young.

They're all young. They're all just a bunch of kids. Some smaller than others — some braver than others. Some lost in time.

There's red posies littered across the meadow, scattered across the grassland. There's a large lake behind the flowers — situated in front of a gateway of trees. What's behind them, Thomas doesn't know, but he sure as hell wants to explore.

"Maggie doesn't expect us 'til six," Newt pipes up suddenly.

Thomas gives him a big grin. "Let's go explore, then. I wanna see what all the fuss is about in the country."

Mina starts running towards the lake, Minho picking up speed at a desperate attempt to catch her. He's fast — but she's dynamite.

Newt hangs back a bit, letting his hands run across the posies with a bit more of a relaxed expression. Thomas does the same, and the two of them glide across the meadow, running their fingers through blood inked flowers.

Once they reach the lake they sit themselves beside Minho, who has his legs dangling over the bank. They're just high enough not to have their feet in the water, but Thomas guesses that once the weather starts getting warm after winter they'll splash around.

And that scares him.

Will he be here that long? To see the seasons change? Is he ever going to go home? And most importantly : is he okay with that?

It's September, here. That means   
around five whole months before the weather starts warming up. Five. Whole. Months.

No thank you, sir. Thomas has no intentions of staying even five weeks — let alone five months. He just has to figure out how he got here, is all.

Thomas, curiosity getting the best of him —heads off to explore behind the trees. A part of him is hoping a secret universe is hidden beyond the them — and at this point, he wouldn't even be surprised. He's pretty sure nothing can faze him now.

Sure enough, Minho, Mina and Newt follow him, like lost ducklings. Newt falls into step next to Thomas, and gives him a shy smile. Guessing that that's his form of apology for the snappy mood, Thomas nods at him with an approving smile.

It doesn't take them long to get to the trees, tall and wide and adventurous. Thomas grins as he starts sprinting through the kind-of forest. He runs straight through, eager to get to the another side.

Newt runs next to him, but he has a funny kind of run, and it takes Thomas a second until he cops that he's limping.

"Keep running," Newt gasps out when he catches Thomas looking. "I'm okay."

So he does.

Minho catches up easily, running with ease on Thomas' right side. Mina is God knows where, but they've got big smiles on their faces and rosy cheeks. Maybe the wind is nipping at their noses, and maybe they can't feel their feet, but they sure are happy.

It's beach. A beach is hidden behind the trees, and Thomas finds that just  _magic_.

" _Wicked_ ," says Newt, breathlessly.

Minho is delighted as well, turning to reach his hand out to his sister. "Look, Mina! A beach! A real, sandy, seashell and sea beach!"

Their awe for it is kind of heart warming, and Thomas can't hold back for the world when Minho and Mina take off towards the ocean. Newt can't either, and the four of them bolt down the hill banks and onto the sand. The tides are high and Thomas feels the ocean air clearing his lungs.

They run until they can't anymore, until Mina gets tired and Newts leg starts acting up. Until they're gasping and wheezing with lit up eyes and smiles that could make flowers grow.

They're in the water before anyone can tell them no, and they're splashing and screeching and laughing — their words are getting whipped away by the wind but unspoken expressions will get them by just fine.

Newt climbs into Thomas' back and Thomas spins them around madly. Newts laughing crazily in his ear and Thomas feels his stomach flip. His heart is racing and he's overwhelmingly  _happy_  — he's never felt this way before. Ever.

Minho has Mina on his shoulders, and they're soaked bone-deep with chattering teeth, but they don't care. The sea is icy and punches their skin but that doesn't stop them. Nothing can.

Thomas feels elated. He jumps around with Newt shrieking on him, and he twirls around with effortless ease. Newt's hat goes flying off his head, and he shouts out 'my hat!' while Thomas doesn't stop spinning them.

Soon enough, they're racing back to the beach, with blue finger tips and lips. The cold is horrendous, but Thomas doesn't care. He really doesn't.

They jump about for a while, trying to dry off, before they head back towards the banks and through the mini forest again. It's a straight cut through passage, and they're at the meadow before they know it.

It's chilly today, bone-chilling, but it's sunny and the ground is somewhat warm. Minho lays back into the meadows and closes his eyes, posies all around him. Newt follows shortly after, and then Thomas. Mina plays by herself by the lake, and the three of them begin to doze off.

Thomas turns to his left, and the sun has hit Newts face just right — he looks all angelic, like some sort of greek god. Not some teenage boy that's living in the middle of a war.

Newts cap falls over his eyes, and Thomas smiles softly.

 _This is okay,_  he thinks.

Yeah. This is more than okay.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant stop writing this wtf i've never been so invested in a fanfic —
> 
> i'm so excited for what's to come in the following chapters jsjsjsj
> 
> thank u all for reading, it means the most <3
> 
> love u


	5. five ; B E G I N

❝  _be afraid. do it anyway._ ❞  
— S E E K E R

**M O N D A Y**

It's been a while and things are the same.

They've fallen into routine and Thomas doesn't know how to feel about it. Himself and Newt wake up, wash, dress, eat, get to school, hate it, go home for lunch, finish school, and head to the meadows or the beach with Minho and Mina. Every single day.

He doesn't hate it. He's not bored of it. But it's kind of nerving - sitting around like they're waiting for something bad to happen. Nothing has really happened so far.

Thomas thinks that's too good to be true. This war is going to last — what, five, six years? This is just the beginning. It hasn't even started yet. Nothing, has started yet. This is just the rough draft. They're just floating around — not doing anything.

It's peaceful yet terrifying at the same time.

Right now, they're in bed. It's late, and himself and Newt have finished playing cards with Charles and Maggie. It'd been good fun. Sitting around the fire. All cosy. Thomas would be lying if he said he didn't laugh as hard as he did.

Newt isn't asleep; but he's pretending. He's good at pretending. Maybe that's why he can see right through Thomas' lies — he's always watching him curiously. It's like he knows. But he can't possibly know, there's no way. It's only been, what, a week? He can't have cracked it that quickly.

"Thomas?" Newt whispers into the darkness, then. The moon filters through the thin curtains, illuminating the room. Thomas can just about make out his face.

The beds are close. Not too close, there's a little table in between them — but he's lying on his side, and if Newt was too, they'd be face to face.

"Yeah?"

Newt swallows. He fidgets beneath the covers.

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

Newt makes a frustrated noise. "The war. Everything. I - I don't have anywhere to go when I get back to London. The orphanage doesn't take kids older than sixteen."

Orphanage. Thomas wasn't expecting that. What the hell?

Newt is only beginning to open up now, night by night. At first it'd been like the stupid conversations, like on the train — but as the days pass they're growing closer. Talking about their pasts, their stories. Thomas can kind of slip in the truth, but he has to coat what he says carefully. Not that it seems to make much of a difference — Newt seems to see right though him.

"You were in an orphanage?"

Newt sniffs, and Thomas gets a horrible feeling that he's crying. "Yeah. It wasn't bad — the nurses were mean but - that wasn't what made it bad. It was just — not having a family. I guess."

Newt goes quiet for a minute, and Thomas feels his heart shatter. "I'm sorry, Newt." He says softly, and gets a sniffle in return.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Newt mutters, and Thomas can hear him start to get frustrated. "Doesn't make it any better. Still don't got nobody."

Thomas throws the covers off of him and heads towards Newts bed, sitting down at the edge. Newt gives him a curious look, and even in the dark he has puffy eyes, red rimmed and swollen.

"I know it doesn't," Thomas murmurs, placing a hand on Newts upper arm. "But you have people, now. You've got Maggie, Charles. Minho, Mina. You've got  _me_ , Newt. You'll always have me."

He hates how this stupid boy with his stupid smile and stupid laugh is turning him soft — but Thomas finds that it's worth the while being kind. Unguarded. It's worth it being around someone like Newt.

"Thanks," the Londoner whispers, and Thomas gives him another gentle squeeze before tip-toeing back to his own bed. It's dark and quiet, the wind whistling outside. It's the same every night, and Thomas feels his gut twist at the odd familiarity of it, now.

"You're an odd one," Newt says aloud, then. It was sudden, and Thomas finds himself holding his breath to listen. "I don't know what it is, I can't hack it. But you're different. I like it."

Thomas is glad for the darkness, because that way, Newt can't see him smile.

**T U E S D A Y**

Everything is a little easier. It'd been somewhat easy at the start, but things are settling and it's starting to feel normal.

Newt and Thomas have started talking like they've known each other their whole lives. Thomas finds how easy it is to be himself — and he swears Newt is far ahead of his time. He knows too much.

Minho's shining eyes and witty humour is normal now, too. Usually quick comments and sharp remarks would irritate Thomas, but with Minho, it's okay. Everything's, okay. Things that used to annoy him don't even earn a blink, now. He's calmed down a lot.

He's not sure if it's because these people don't know who he is - but he feels, free, in a way. They don't judge him and they haven't labelled him as some dodgy basket case that will jump kids and wreck property and slash tires for kicks. They don't think he's a waste of space. They like him. They  _listen_ , to him. And Thomas finds he likes that. A lot.

It's still startlingly scary how things are coming together, and how Thomas feels like he belongs here. Deep down, he knows he doesn't. He belongs back in the future, with IPhones and flat-screen TVs and Range Rovers and things you just don't get here. Things that Thomas finds he can live without.

Even so, he's listening to his heart for once. He's let himself loose a little - easying up. The countryside is quiet and separated from the world, but it's new and exciting if you add the mystery to it. He's screaming laughing in the ocean and rolling around in lakes and doing gas mask drills at school. He's learning to live like they do, and it seems so natural, it's hard to remember that this isn't home.

Like he said before, this is only the beginning. He hasn't really experienced anything yet. His journey has just begun.

And he's decided to stay. To find out what this lifetime has in store for him.

Right now, Thomas is relaxed. His hands are behind his head, supporting his skull as he gazes nonchalantly at the moving clouds. Mina's background noise of girlish laughter is fuzzy in his head - he's more focused on Newt's breathing sounds next to him.

Minho has wandered off to God knows where, too pent up with energy to lie around all day. School had been as boring as ever, and Thomas feels himself drifting off, before Minho comes back roaring with excitement.

"Get up, you two! I found a lighthouse! Oh, come quick!"

Thomas feels Newt jolting awake beside him, and the two glance at each other before shrugging with half smiles - a lighthouse, huh?

Mina is grinning from ear to ear, leaping from the lake and sprinting towards her big brother. Minho himself is jittering with an electric energy - Thomas has no idea why they're so excited over a damn  _lighthouse_.

But, Newt gets antsy beside him, fidgeting a bit and trying to bite back a smile. Thomas, noticing his anticipation, starts to run, and all four of them go chasing through the trees, following Minho's powerful feet thrums.

Once they get to the beach, they're out of breath and puffing out, greeted with the rich scent of fish and ocean - that sea air that tickles your nostrils. Thomas breathes it in, closing his eyes and opening his mind. This is it. This is what he loves.

Newt stretches out his arms, allowing the wind to whip his hair. They're simply taking a break from running, but they take the moment to enjoy the thrushes of wind whispering in their ears, the trees leaves dancing behind them.

It's not long before they continue their trek, bouncing with excitement. Thomas doesn't even know why the fuck he's getting adrenaline rushes from this, but he doesn't care. He allows himself to enjoy it. He has been doing that, these days.

Minho leads them across a hill of tumbling rocks, large boulders that hide whatever's behind them. He lifts Mina up first, holding his arms out to catch her if she slips. Thomas feels an urge to do the same to Newt, but he bites his lip and refrains from trying to help.

Soon enough, all four of them stand side by side atop the rocks, enjoying the marvellous view before them. It is, in the end, just a lighthouse, but it looks big and exciting and new and Thomas feels his heart burst at the adventure.

Newt breathes out beside him. "Oh, it's magnificent, Minho!"

Mina let's out a small gasp of her own. "Can we go inside? Please?"

Thomas doesn't say anything, but for some reason, Minho's eyes are drawn to him. "Well?" He pushes, grinning at him. "Whatt'ya think, Thomas? In or out?"

Thomas doesn't know why he gets to pick, but for some reason, he's glad for the opportunity. "In," he declares, starting down the rocks. "Let's go explore this place."

Newt follows silently behind him, eyes wide with ambition. Mina squeals excitedly, skipping happily beside Minho. Thomas just prays that nobodies inside - that'd suck if someone were to ruin their fun.

It doesn't take them long to trail across the wet beach - it's empty, and Thomas sucks in a breath, hoping that no ones home. There's a small, red shed beside the lighthouse, and Thomas doesn't even try and guess what's inside. Instead, he jiggles the doorknob, testing to see if anyone will hear.

Once he's received the all clear, he backs away, turning around to search for a spare key somewhere. Under the matt? No. In the ornament beside the door? No. On the windowsill of the shed? No.

Fuck. How's he supposed to open the door?

Minho snorts beside him, giving Mina a nudge. She pulls a hair pin out of her long, dark locks, and Thomas is suddenly glad for girls and their hair. "Thanks, Mina," he grins, turning to bend the pin and fiddle with it inside the lock.

"C'mon," he mutters, jiggling it around in hopes of unlocking the door. "This always works in the movies."

Minho is beside him, watching intently, and Mina is humming excitedly to herself. Newt is walking around, gazing at the lighthouse with such awe and a sparkle in his eyes - Thomas has to turn away to focus on getting them  _actually_  inside.

He twists it this way and that, and just as he thinks it's not going to work, he hears a  _click_  and a faint pop. Thank  _fuck_. He was starting to panic.

With a pleased grin, he turns the handle, and the wooden, chipped-paint door swings open with the loudest creak he's ever heard in his life.

Minho lets out a low whistle.  
"Sheesh. Get some oil on those hinges. Hitler will hear us, with a sound like that."

Newt lets out a low chuckle beside him, and even Mina smiles. Thomas doesn't really understand the humour and doesn't join in, walking straight into the lighthouse instead.

And  _holy fuck_. Is it amazing - or, as Newt would say -  _magnificent_.

All of their eyes widen at the sight. It's dusty, and old, but it's big and brilliant and holds so many secrets - Thomas knows they're going to spend a lot of time here. They're going to love it.

Typically, it's round, which is fascinating. Thomas has never seen an exterior like this before - it's kind of dizzying. It doesn't even feel real.

The floor is hard dark wood and is littered with boxes with white sheets tossed over them, and rugs and empty glass bottles. There's a fishing rod hanging on a hook, and a fishing net beneath the window. There's paintings scattered across the room, either on the walls where it's flat, or just propped up against objects.

To the right, there's a doorway without a door, leading into the next room. The lighthouse is big, really big, and Thomas abandons the first room to explore the next. Newt follows obediently like a little dog, and Minho and Mina catch on and join them too.

They are, once again, greeted with, courtesy of Newt, a 'spectacular' sight.

Thomas doesn't think it's all that interesting to look at, but the room is sweet and cosy and he finds that he likes it anyway.

It's books. Shelves and shelves and shelves of books. The shelves line up awkwardly that make the room look kind of hexagon like, because there's no corners, but it's different. A nice different - just like this entire experience has been so far.

To the left side, across the room, here's a small wooden table, that's empty and musty but it fits. There's four chairs which is just right - and there's a plush sofa in the room too, in the middle, with another small wooden table sat in front of it. In front of that, is a small fireplace. Thomas doesn't know where there's a chimney in a lighthouse, but he doesn't bother thinking about it.

Newt races over and throws himself onto the sofa, and, just like everything in here, dust erupts from it, causing the blonde to hack loudly at the powder in his lungs.

Newt almost laughs once he's done coughing up his organs.

"Sheesh. Never thought I'd see the day where I got excited over bloody  _books_."

Minho snorts, flopping down next to him. He lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes. "I could stay here all day," he says, resting his arms behind his head. "Screw school, and that nasty Mr Rodgers. He's a real slimeball when it comes to you, Newt."

"Blasted fool," Newt mutters, and turns away.

Thomas winces. It's almost every day that Newt receives some form of a beating or another. He doesn't even  _say_  anything - sometimes he's just sitting there, and Mr Rodgers gets all thick and decides to whip the shit out of him.

There's angry, purple and brown and green bruises littered across Newts arms and hands. Some on his backside, which Thomas pretends not to see when they're changing at night.

(He always sees.)

It's sad. And it's not fair. Thomas thought the teachers in his school were bad - they can't even  _compare_ , to the brutality and injustice that Newt faces every day.

Every time Thomas catches a glimpse of a painful spot on Newts pale skin, he can't help but wonder  _why_  Mr Rodgers seems to hate him so much. Was it that correction on the first day? Is he seriously,  _still_  holding that against him? For real?

If that's the case, then Thomas can say, truly, with his whole heart and soul : what the  **fuck**.

Newt doesn't dwell on it, and he's rolling his eyes. "Doesn't matter," he declares, dramatically crossing his legs. "It doesn't bother me, so it shouldn't bother you. Period."

He holds his arms behind his head. "Don't suppose there's a kettle here? I'd love a tea."

Thomas literally despises tea, but he doesn't say so.

"Nah, I wouldn't bet on it. Is there even electricity in here?" He says, instead. It's almost scary how good the timing is, but, coincidentally, lights suddenly brink to life. They're dim and a little glitchy, but it adds cosiness to the cobwebbed ceilings.

Mina appears with a cheeky grin on her face. "I did that," she announces, before getting comfortable on Minho's lap, stretching out her legs. "Oh, fetch us books, will you, Thomas?" She asks, sweetly. Minho slaps her head playfully.

Thomas does, anyways. He's never been a fond reader, and he's antsy, too, but for some reason, he doesn't mind sitting here all day. He grabs a few interesting looking novels - ' _Gone With The Wind'_ for Newt, ' _Ballet Shoes'_ for Mina, and ' _And Then There Were None_ ' for Minho. He grabs an old dusty book for himself, too. ' _Of Mice and Men_.'

Thomas has no idea what the fuck he's doing, sitting in an old lighthouse with kids that are far from home, in a lifetime he doesn't belong, but it's not astonishingly weird, anymore. He doesn't feel so out of place. He feels...oddly content.

He chucks the books carefully at the lot, before plopping down limply on a scruffy old armchair beside the sofa. His legs dangle over the armrests and he tilts his head back.

"This is nice," Minho says, into the silence. All you can hear is the shore, the faint waves in the distance, and seagulls. Then there's the sounds of book pages turning, occasional fidgety movement. It's relaxing.

"Magic," Newt sighs, closing his eyes. "Just magic."

**T U E S D A Y**

Today is even better.

School was, like every day, a joke, and Newt, Thomas, Minho and Mina raced towards the lighthouse as soon as it was over.

Newt had nicked a deck of cards from Charles' desk in his study, and they sit themselves around the table on the second floor, carefree and content. They spend hours talking and laughing at stupid card games that Thomas would never find entertaining at home.

He's laughing at things his humour usually wouldn't find amusing, and he's enjoying conversations that he'd normally find exhausting. He doesn't get it. How can he enjoy their company so much, when he's so incredibly different from them?

Maybe it's the way they talk to him like he's not an outsider. Maybe it's the way they accept him and treat him the same. Maybe it's the way that they're not selfish assholes that trip him up in the hallways and scowl at him for breathing - Thomas doesn't know, and quite frankly, he doesn't care. They treat him like a friend, and that's all that matters.

Newt kicks him under the table. "Your turn, genius."

Thomas has totally forgotten what they're doing, lost in his own world. He looks up, ignoring Newts impatient jabs.

"Ever wonder if we can get to the top? Where the light is?"

Minho rolls his eyes. "We're not even supposed to be in here, are we? We barely made it through the front door and now you want to try get to the top of this thing? No way."

"No, just," Thomas starts, feebly switching his cards around in his hands, distracted. "Imagine the view up there. There's gotta be a spiral staircase somewhere - how else do other people get there?"

Newt gives up on trying to get everyone to play, and drops his cards on the table with a pouty expression. "You go have a look then, Thomas. Seeing as you're so bloody curious."

Thomas grins at him, ignoring his sharp comment. "Come with me."

So they ditch the cards and leave the open room, tracing back to the front door of the lighthouse. They space out around the large room, looking behind the large pictures and fishing nets. They rip off the sheets to search beneath them, and they open the dusty boxes only to be greeted with fuel for boats.

Theres a weird shaped square in the ceiling, and Thomas just  _knows_  it's a weird, trapdoor entrance to the second floor. They just need a way to get up there. Or, more so, how to open it.

As if he read his mind, Newt throws a fishing rod at Thomas, who barely catches it. "Use that," he says, gesturing towards the ceiling. "Shove it in the little hook, twist and pull down."

Nodding, Thomas does as he's told, and soon enough, the door flaps open. He has to duck and dodge as a wooden ladder tumbles down afterwards, nearly knocking him out. He falls into Newt, who latches onto him instinctively.

Thomas doesn't move for a moment, and he looks down to see Newts small hand wrapped tightly around his arm, the other fisted into the back of his - or Charles' - shirt. He gets a funny feeling in his stomach, as Newt meets his gaze and gives him a gentle, kind smile.

He suddenly starts chuckling, letting go of Thomas, who immediately wants him to latch back on. It's stupid, and he wants to roll his eyes at himself, but he focuses on Newts smiling eyes instead.

"Come on," he mutters, unfolding the ladder as Newts chuckles die down. He starts to climb up, not bothering to wait for the blonde. Once he's up there, he lets out a breath. He was right all along.

He steps out of the way to let Newt climb up, and walks around the empty room. The entire floor is one whole room, big and spacious and round and empty — and right above, a huge, brilliant spiral staircase awaits them. It goes up for ages, and Thomas gives Newt a sideways grin, before racing toward them, eager to get to the top.

They're wide, and Thomas slides his hands across the banisters as they climb higher and higher, Newt hot at his tails. They look down after a while and they're so high - so high, and Thomas  _grins_.

Soon enough, they reach exactly what Thomas was looking for. The top of the lighthouse is where the light itself is located, and there's long, wide window panes that stretch out around the entire tiny room.

Newt smiles, widely. "This is  _magic_ , Thomas!"

Thomas doesn't think it's as far as to say fucking  _magical_ , but he will say, it's pretty amazing.

He nods in agreement, wandering around. Gazing out the window, he watches with an unusual fixation. The day is cloudy but dry, and the deep grey sea washes onto the shore, licking at the sand and disposing seaweed.

There's boats, lots and lots of boats. They're far away, only a dot in the distance. Thomas doesn't know where they're going or how long they'll be, but he feels his stomach twist in the anticipation.

And growl in hunger. Lunch time!

"I'm starving. Did you bring Maggie's sandwiches? They taste like ass but I don't even care, at this point."

Newt laughs loudly at that, something he does a lot. Thomas' choice of words are obviously drastically different to the slang in 1939, and he finds it inevitable, how he can't help but speak like himself and how Newt always seems to find it comical.

"No, I didn't," the latter admits, once his laughter has died down. "I left them on the counter this morning. Shall I go back and get them?"

"Nah," Thomas murmurs, staring out into the sea again. "We can all go back at eat there. Maggie probably misses the company, anyways."

So that's what they do. Minho and Mina end up parting with them at the entrance of the village,  off to their own temporary home. Newt stuffs the cards in his pocket with a wink as himself and Thomas walk down the empty lane to the cottage.

Once they're inside, all good natured and cheerful, Maggie sits them down in front of a plate stacked with all sorts of sandwiches. Thomas has never eaten so much bread in his life.

Maggie strikes up an interesting conversation as they scoff down the crumbs. "So, boys, there's news going around the village. I was out and about in the market, today, and apparently, they're calling this a 'phoney war.' In fact, things have been so clear in London that a lot of evacuees have started going home."

She trails off then, looking almost disappointed. Thomas swallows thickly. Bombs or no bombs, he really doesn't like the idea of going back to London. But he gets it. Him and Newt have done their bit.

"We get it," he says, nodding towards Newt. "You want us to go. Understandable, really, it's been great that you stuck around with us for so long."

Newt looks a little green.

"No, no," Maggie recoils, almost smiling. "You've got it all wrong. I'd love for you boys to stay - I enjoy your company very much, and Charles is going to need help on the farm soon enough. It'd be wonderful for you to stay - if you want, of course."

Newt's face lights up in relief, and Thomas finds his own expression ease at the good news. He shrugs, giving a quirky smile. "Sure, why not?"

Newt adds his own personal opinion. "I'd love to stay, Maggie. I like it here a lot and I haven't got anyone else in London, anyways."

Maggie claps her hands excitedly. "Oh, this is all just so brilliant, perfect timing for Registration Day!"

Thomas gives her a questioning glance, knowing Newt was doing the same. "What's that?"

"The twenty-ninth of September is next week, which, like I said, is National Registration Day. Ever householder has to fill out a form stating who lives with them, and if it's the case that you'd like to stay, I can write your names down.  It's extra important, more say, this year because of the war. If rationing is brought in, the government needs to know how many mouths there are to feed."

Now it's starting to make sense.

Newt crinkles his nose. "Rationing? As in, no sweets or sugar or literally anything nice at all? Really?"

Maggie smiles at him. "It's only rumoured. Nothing confirmed yet. Now, is there a drop of tea left for me?"

 _November_ ,  _1939_.

**F R I D A Y**

"I've made a decision," Minho declares, snapping his book closed.

Newt and Thomas look up curiously, from where they're sat on the floor playing some weird old board game that Mina keeps beating them at.

It's been two or so months, and Thomas has no idea how he hasn't lost his mind. He misses home, as much as he hates to say it. Every day it's getting harder, as much as he enjoys being here. It's not right. It isn't home - he's a gazillion miles away. He's starting to get worried that he'll be trapped in the past forever.

"Oh yeah?" He grins, but it falters at Minho's rare, unsettling, serious expression. It's not every day that Minho holds a look like that, and it's a little unnerving, to say the least.

He stands up and starts pacing the room, the frosty windows and chilly weather kept at bay.   
Minho has a deep frown on his face and Newt stands up, concerned.

He opens his mouth, but Minho cuts him off first. "I cant just sit around, anymore. I'm big and tall and strong and clever - I can't just stand here when I could be helping out in the war."

"But you are helping," Newt says, softly. "You work on the farm every day. We all do. How else would the livestock get all their food?"

Thomas, Newt and Minho have all started to work on Charles' farms on the days they don't go to school. It's boring, but a million times better than to sit in a stuffy classroom putting gas masks on and off all day.

Mina has gone pale and doesn't say anything, and Thomas swallows uncomfortably.

"Measly farm work doesn't do justice in a war, Newt," the Asian snarls, clenching his fists. "I have to help. I'm signing up for the Army. There's nothing any of you can say to change my mind - it's time I do some good once and for all."

Newt's face matches Mina's, and Thomas rushes to change his decision, despite everything. "You can't," he frowns, standing up as well. "Mina needs you here, for starters, and you're way too young. There's no way in hell they'll take an evacuee - and people  _die_  in wars, Minho. There's so many ways you can help without putting your life at risk!"

"Our country needs more soldiers," Minho hisses, ignoring Thomas' pleas. "I don't care about stupid farm work or anything else. I'm going to serve England and do us justice."

Mina chokes at that, and Newt tries to comfort her, and Thomas feels his heart tear in two. This can't be right.

"You can't just  _leave_ ," he says, aghast and starting to get angry. "What about your sister? Don't you even care? What about if you die, Minho?  _Think_ , man!"

But Minho shakes his head. "I'm sorry," is all he says, and the room echoes silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wtf this whole chapter is pointless lol
> 
> anyways, have u all noticed that the quotes and gifs match up with the chapter hehe
> 
> (keep an eye out for that ;))
> 
> i hope u enjoyed as it's gonna get sad from here on out yiKes!
> 
> thank u for reading. it means the most.
> 
> love u. don't forget to smile.
> 
> bee


	6. six ; S W I T CH

❝  _If it feels right, that's all that matters._ ❞  
-  _faraway_

**M O N D A Y**

Minho is gone.

Thomas doesn't know how he managed to do it, without a birth certificate or just any general personal information — but he did. And he left his sister and friends and future behind.

He'd hugged them goodbye, tried to console his hysterical sister, promised to write. Then, he was gone. Vanished. Left without a trace. Almost as if he'd never really been there at all.

The days aren't the same. Minho isn't there to make all the jokes and amuse them with his wit. He isn't there to scoff and roll his eyes and tickle Mina's tummy. He isn't here to ruffle Newt's hair and glare at Mr. Rodgers. He isn't there and it's achingly unbearable without him.

Mina is lost without her brother, moody and upset all the time. She's lonely, and Newt and Thomas can't fill Minho's space. Nobody can.

It's already been a week without him, and the weather is getting even colder than before. It's November 8th, 1939. Thomas is still here and Minho isn't.

That's not right. It can't be. It shouldn't be. Minho is too  _young_. He can't be fighting in wars he doesn't belong — he can't.

The days in the lighthouse are empty and hollow, now. It's lost it's original spark and there's a massive gap in all their hearts that seems to follow them everywhere. Even the beach seems dull, and they can't for their lives pretend to act like everything's okay.

But they try. Newt holds Mina's hand when she's upset, and Thomas plaits her hair to get her to laugh. They play and make jokes and Thomas tells her funny stories of a time they'll never know. A time where he truly belongs.

Newt seems a little disheartened without him around, too. He's less chatty, and hasn't got a lot to say. Maybe that's not just Minho's absence, though. Newt's been acting weird and Thomas has no idea why.

They're walking home from school, after dropping Mina at her evacuee home. The day is cold and gloomy, matching their moods. Newt isn't much of a chatty Cathy, but he's unusually quiet today.

"Everything okay?" Thomas intercepts, gently. Newt rolls his eyes, huffing to the side.

"Yes, things are just wonderful. Thanks for asking."

Fine. So be it.

"Jesus, okay. Don't get all pissy with me."

Newt scowls. "I'll do whatever I bloody well please."

Thomas let's out a scowl of his own, irritated. "Shove it, Newt. I miss him too, okay? So does Mina, alright? We all do."

He doesn't know what else to say - and he can feel himself starting to get angry. He's pissed but he doesn't want to lose his temper. Not with Newt. Anybody, but Newt.

He tries again, stilling his hands and calming his heart. "Listen — I know it sucks. This whole war thing — it's not easy, and it never will be. It's scary, and it's not fair, but we can't just  _stop_. We have to keep going. For Mina, for Charles, for Maggie — for Minho,"

He sucks in another breath. "For  _ourselves_."

Newt swallows thickly and doesn't reply.

But the hand that is suddenly clasped in Thomas' own tells him it's enough.

**T H U R S D A Y**

"Let's quit school," Thomas says.

"No," Newt frowns, rolling onto his stomach. The sandy stones dig into a rib. "I'm not sure I know how to operate a gas mask yet."

Thomas smiles at that. It's agony, having to take on and off their gas masks numerous times a day - it'd be concerning if anybody in that classroom didn't know how to work one at this stage.

"I'm serious," he speaks again, sitting up. They're very close to the sea, the oceans edge almost tipping off his feet. "It's a total waste of time. We learn absolutely jack shit, the teachers a dickhead, Mina's losing her mind and you can't handle another round of beatings — there's no reason for us to stay."

Newt hums thoughtfully, running his fingers across wet sand. "Maybe so, but we can't just leave — they'll wonder where we've gone to."

"That's the good part," Thomas grins, raising his eyebrows cheekily. "Think about it — how many evacuees have just vanished? Without question? They've all gone home, that's why. They'll think the same about us. It's easy, Newt. C'mon."

It's just them two, today. Mina decided she didn't want to hang around with them and went to the markets with the woman who took her and Minho in instead. So it's just a remorseful day of feeling pity and regrets, for them.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Sure. It's easy. What else will we be doing? Sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves? At least school passes time."

Thomas fights back a groan. "School is  _torture_ , I have to literally count down the minutes before we can flee the hellhole. There's no way we're staying. It's decided. We're not going back."

"It's decided by you," Newt interrupts, sharply. "I didn't say so. I'll stay if I want to."

"You're only staying just to spite me," Thomas retorts, trying not to snap.

Newt does that, often. If Thomas wants something, Newt wants the opposite. If Thomas agrees with something, Newt disagrees. It's a constant competition and Thomas isn't too sure why. It seems that Newt just wants someone to argue against, for some weird, unknown reason.

"Maybe," Newt grins, and that's the end of that.

**S A T U R D A Y**

Thomas finds Maggie in the front garden. He's on his way back from the local corner shop; after picking up the newspaper and a few jellies for 5p.

He swings open the little iron chipped gate, and makes his way down the small lane towards the cottage. Maggie greets him with a bright smile from where she is sat on the bench.

"Oh, hello, Thomas. Newt's looking for you," she tells him, a twinkle in her eye.

Thomas gives her a grin in thanks and steps into the cosy home, dropping the paper onto the kitchen table and opening the jellies.

It's a nice morning. Cold, of course, but the sun is shining bright and there isn't a cloud to be seen. Unusual, for this time of year, but Thomas basks in its warmth, for now.

He slips a sweet into his mouth before heading through the house, sidling in and out of rooms in search for Newt.

He's in their bedroom, in the end, staring out the window with a forlorn look on his face. Thomas chews absentmindedly before making his presence known.

"Boo," he greets, tossing the little candy bag on his bed. Newt rolls his eyes, but smiles a bit nonetheless.

"Nice day out, innit?" He murmurs, and Thomas nods, not realising Newt has his back to him and can't see.

"Do you think it's sunny where Minho is?"

Thomas sighs. Again, back to this.

He doesn't have the patience. "Sure."

Newt is about to reply, but Thomas changes the subject. "I met someone interesting today," he says, plopping down next to Newt on the small sofa. "Her name was Betty."

"That's nice," Newt snorts, pulling his knees to his chest.

"She told me about all her dogs," Thomas continues, lifting up a knee. "Dalmatians, Golden Retrievers, Shitzus. She has lots."

"Even more brilliant," Newt chimes, resting his head. They're both staring at each other, and Thomas grins.

"She's a crazy dog lady. I always thought that was a cat thing."

Newt chuckles. "Sounds like fun. I'd like to have pets, someday. When all of this is over."

Thomas feels sad then. His heart does a little tug and he swallows. Will he still be here when the war is over? Will he grow up with Newt? Find Minho? Never return home again?

He tries to smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Newt catches Thomas' eye. "I hope we're still friends then."

Thomas' throat closes over. How can he lie to him? He can't make empty promises he knows he won't fulfil. He can't do this.

But the more he looks at Newt, the more he realises that it's gonna suck saying goodbye, whenever the time comes. Newt is beautiful, really. Thomas doesn't think of it as anything, but sometimes, when the sun hits his face just right, and he does that big smile, it's like flowers grow.

Newt is honestly the best friend he's ever had — even if he gets on his nerves sometimes. And sometimes, Thomas wonders what it would be like if they were something more.

And then it freaks him out, so he stops wondering.

"I hope so too," Thomas settles for that, because he's not exactly lying. Newt seems content at that and smiles softly. It's one of those smiles that makes Thomas just stare.

Newt stares back, and they smile at each other.

Maybe they haven't got Minho. Maybe they're stuck in a world so eager to tear anything apart. Maybe they're young and stupid and hopeful and maybe they're lost. But they've got Mina, they've got Maggie and Charles. They've got the lighthouse and the beach and long days that beg for adventure.

They've got each other, and right now, Thomas thinks it's enough.

**M O N D A Y**

"We were thinking of quitting school," Thomas says, after a deep breath. Charles and Maggie are both sat at the table, dishing out eggs and buttered bread.

" _Thomas_ , was thinking of quitting school," Newt adds, smiling mischievously. Thomas kicks him under the table and Maggie sighs, but fondly.

"Well, I think education is every important, boys. I understand that things are different here and times are hard, but you'll have to make do, for now."

Thomas groans, and Newt laughs loudly, triumph in Thomas' lack of success.

"But, we're not really  _learning_  anything. All the teacher does is scream if anyone blinks and makes us take on and off our gas masks."

Maggie tut-tuts. "Now, now Thomas, I'm sure that isn't the case. Eat up, love."

Thomas doesn't budge. "C'mon, it really isn't doing any good! And, besides, if we quit, we can help in the farm more often and get more work done. Sitting in a classroom all day with a load of kids isn't gonna help in a war."

Charles speaks up then. "He's got a point, Maggie. The boys are sixteen, I'm sure they know enough. Farm work needs to be done and they're in their right minds for wanting to help."

Maggie is left standing alone, and eventually, she sighs, but a smile graces her lips. "Oh, very well then."

Thomas cheers and Newt laughs again. The rising sun streams through the windows and suddenly, things don't seem so bad.

_December, 1939_

**S U N D A Y**

It's snowing. It's snowing and Thomas doesn't think he's ever had so much fun.

Himself and Newt are wrapped up in Charles' old winter clothes, Mina is dressed for the occasion and they're having the time of their lives.

They've made three snowmen and snow angels, and right now, Thomas is ducking behind the small cobbled wall guarding the cottage as Newt aims for him with a snowball from the front garden.

As it crunches beneath his feet, Thomas lathers up snow in his hands and chucks it at Newt. It smashes him in the face, and Thomas' stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

It's Christmas Eve, and everything feels just right. Maggie and Charles have the fire lit inside and they made a batch of raisin cookies earlier. The smell had wavered through the cottage festively and Thomas beams thinking about it.

However, the shop shelves are starting to empty and there's not much of a selection. Thomas has a bag of lemon sherbets for Newt and Mina for their Christmas gifts, because there really wasn't anything else.

Soon enough, the three of them plough inside, Mina invited to share the biscuits. She's smiling, laughing, pink cheeked and cheerful. But she misses her brother, dearly.

They all sit around the fire, mugs of hot chocolate warming their hands. They're lucky, for their sweet things. Rationing is coming soon and Thomas is grateful of the nice stuff, for now.

After some card games and stories, Charles and Maggie walk Mina back home. It's dark, now, and Newt and Thomas are squashed on the living room sofa, watching the grandfather clock tick as the time flies by.

"I can't believe it's already almost Christmas," Newt says, licking his lips. "We've been here three months already. Feels like it's been a week."

That, Thomas can agree on. "Yeah," he murmurs, trying not to focus on his knee touching Newts. "Crazy how fast time goes."

Newt shifts a bit, suddenly dropping his head on Thomas' shoulder, who almost jumps out of his skin.

"Uh-huh," Newt mumbles, and Thomas gently takes his mug and sets them both on the floor.

Christmas is coming, but so is the future. And nobody knows what it'll hold.

**M O N D A Y**

"Happy Christmas, Thomas!"

Newt pounces onto Thomas, giggly and giddy as he waves around a packaged gift in his hands.

Thomas grins up at him, rubbing at his eyes. It's early morning, and he sits up gingerly as Newt practically shoves the present into his face.

He reaches under his pillow and hands Newt his gift from him, and together they rip open the wrapping, laughing in sync once they realise what they've gotten each other.

Thomas chuckles at the packet of lemon sherbets before him. Newt grins at his identical pack, and waves it with a smirk.

"Great minds think alike," he says, popping one into his mouth. Thomas smiles, softly. Then, gently, he scoots Newt over and climbs out of bed, reaching underneath to fetch the gifts he got for Maggie and Charles.

They did give him the money, after all.

Soon enough, Thomas and Newt trail downstairs, and greet Maggie and Charles with a "Happy Christmas!"

They exchange presents yet again, and Thomas can't keep the smile off his face.

After breakfast, they sit around the living room, and Maggie leaves to get the boys a 'surprise' that they're both anxious for.

Thomas sighs in content. The cottage is warm and Newt is right next to him, smiling wide and happy and it's just  _wonderful_.

He wonders how Christmas is at home. Do they miss him? His mom? Sister? Have they even noticed he's gone?

Maggie returns before Thomas can get too deep into his thoughts, and waves what seems to be a letter in her hands.

Newt gasps first. "Oh my gosh! From Minho!"

Maggie winks at him. "You'll have to open to find out."

Thomas feels excitement surround him. Newt snatches the letter and carefully tears it open. He pulls it out and starts to read it out loud:

_Dear Mina, Newt and Thomas,_

_Happy Christmas! I hope you get this on time. These days, letters are known to go missing. If you're reading this, you're lucky it got to you._

_I hope you're not still mad at me. Things are actually going alright. I've passed the physical, and the guys here are neat! We're all OK. Missing home, but I'm finally doing something. That's what counts, right?_

_Listen, things might get rough soon. You might not hear from me for a while, but you have to hear this. I won't die. I'm not going anywhere. One day, I'll come home. I'll come home and things will be just fine. I promise._

_I'm running out of pencil. The last thing I want to say is, take care for me. Don't give up. Keep finding the adventures. There's so much out there, don't stop living because of me._

_I'll see you soon. I love you, Mina._

_Newt, Thomas. Take it easy. Thanks for everything._

_— Minho_

"Well, he's got bloody good spelling!" Newt says, and Thomas bursts into laughter. His eyes are watering, and so are Newts. They're crying and laughing, because everything feels okay again. Minho is okay. They're all okay.

And God, does Thomas hope Minho is having a wonderful day too.

Mina comes over that late afternoon with a plate of gingerbread men, accompanied by her part time mother, otherwise known as 'Dandelion' or just plain ol' 'Dandy.' Thomas likes her a lot, with rosy cheeks and grey hair in sweet tufts across her scalp. She looks like she's out of a storybook.

Mina cries when she reads the letter and hugs it to her chest. Thomas doesn't know how or why, but himself, Newt and her decide that they will leave it in the lighthouse. A treasure to never be lost at sea.

They eat well, laugh until their bellies hurt. They play old time games like blind mans buff, checkers, chutes and ladders, and jacks. Thomas finds himself feeling like he belongs, but he has a twisty, sick feeling in his gut reminding him that he doesn't.

He can't help but wonder what things are like back at home. Does anybody miss him? What will he say when he returns? Christ,  _will_  he return?

Will he ever go home again? Should he be spending Christmas in the twenty-first century with his mom and sister decorating the tree, pulling crackers and watching Christmas movies?

Or should he be here, with Newt, in 1939, enjoying the taste of goodness in the middle of a war, praying for a friend to survive and playing old games and waiting for adventure?

It feels like a dream. Like if he closes his eyes long enough he'll wake up back home. And it'll be as if none of this ever happened. And for a reason Thomas is afraid to admit, he knows he would be devastated.

He likes it here. He likes Newt. He likes Mina, Charles, Maggie. He needs to know what happens to Minho. He's started their story and now he has to stay and finish. He has to find out the ending. He'll go mad otherwise.

But that's just it. Will he stay forever? Is this his life now? Will he never set foot in the future again?

Does he want to?

He's jostled out of his thoughts when Newt jabs at him. "What are you thinkin' about?"

They're outside, in the pale, picture perfect snow. Mina is playing with the adults and Newt and Thomas are sat neatly on the small bench in front of the cottage.

"Just, stuff, I guess." Thomas isn't sure how to reply.

"What 'stuff?'"

Thomas chews his lip. "I dunno, Newt. Home. My family. Y'know?"

A shadow casts across Newts pretty, pretty face. He usually looks a little disheartened when his family is brought up. Growing up in an orphanage, especially this day and age, can't have been easy. Thomas feels his heart sink when he remembers about it. It must have been tough, living in a world like that.

Newts eyes darken. "Right. Family. Course."

Thomas gets why Newt feels maybe a little threatened. Newt is more than happy to be here. In fact, Thomas is sure, that when the war is over, Newt really won't want to return to London. He's delighted to be here.

And Thomas is too. Just, with a few issues.

"I just feel weird. You know? I guess I just . . . we've been here a while, huh?"

Newt pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, apprehensive about where this conversation is going. "Yeah, we have."

"I love it here, man. It's awesome. I just, feel a little overwhelmed by it all sometimes. I'm just . . . well, glad that Minho's okay, for starters. And today was great. It's just new, spending Christmas away from home for the first time."

Newt finally deflates a bit, sighing. But he understands, fairly.

"Yeah. I get that. I don't feel it, but I get it."

Thomas, in sympathy, smiles at Newt softly, and that's the end of that.

Mina comes running over and shoves a clump of snow in Newts face, and soon enough, both boys have joined in the snow war. Thomas starts to feel as if things really are starting to get better.

He knows better, now.

**T H U R S D A Y**

"It's almost 1940."

It's late at night. Icicles paint the windows and frost skates in the air. Thomas and Newt have pushed their tiny beds together, creating a big double bed because of how cold it is.

Thomas swallows. "Yeah. Can't believe it."

Newt smiles up at him. "You can't believe most things, Thomas."

They're face to face, lying ridiculously close to one another. It's not awkward, though. Thomas is actually oddly comfortable, and if he can feel Newts small feet pressed against his leg, he doesn't say so.

"I know. Everything's just too unreal."

Newt rolls his eyes with a grin. "That's not true. Everything feels so  _boring_  to me. Nothings happening with anybody. Who knows what's going on? You haven't a bloody well clue in the countryside, that's for sure."

Thomas can feel Newts breath on his face, and he feebly, subtly, shifts the tiniest bit closer. For warmth. Obviously.

"Yeah, you're right. We're secluded from the world. I kinda like it that way."

"Me too."

Newts teeth begin to chatter with the cold. Thomas fights whatever weird urge inside of him that wants to snuggle him.

Newt ends up being brave. "We should huddle. For warmth. I'm freezing."

Thomas tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. What's he supposed to do? Say?

Thomas' mind goes haywire as he tries to speak, but his mouth is suddenly dry. He fumbles uselessly over himself for a minute before Newt ends up laughing.

"Such an idiot."

And then, Newt grabs Thomas' arm and throws it around his own hip. He smirks and rolls over with a careless yawn, totally chill about the whole thing. Thomas goes stiff, and doesn't move for a solid seven seconds.

Then, gradually, he tightens his grip and presses his body closer, carefully snuffing his nose at the crown of Newts hair. He fidgets for a while, until he settles body-to-body with Newt, his leg halfway intertwined with his.

Newt tucks his scruffy head beneath Thomas' chin. They're warming up. It's not awkward. Thomas doesn't know why it isn't, but he likes it. It feels right.

Newt feels small beneath his arm (which is to be expected considering how skinny he is) and Thomas adjusts his arm until it's halfway up Newt's chest, rubbing there gently.

"Th's nice."

"Mhm?"

"Keep at that."

So Thomas does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh hi i'm back
> 
> so it's been a while and shit i'm so sorry  
> school is a literal bitch and i've got oral exams tomorrow and here i am (:
> 
> things are gonna get pretty rough from here on out, and i hope i haven't lost any of my lovely readers.
> 
> if ur reading this  
> thank you so much.  
> i love u. always <3
> 
> see u next time. soon.
> 
> — bee


	7. seven ; W I L D

❝ _you. you are my good days._ ❞  
_— f.d soul_

**S A T U R D A Y**

"Let's sneak out," Newt says.

Thomas doesn't feel like following him like an obedient dog, but he's curious.

"Sneak out where?"

"Of the house, stupid. I want to go somewhere."

Thomas turns to face him. It's nearing four am, and he'd be lying if he said he was tired. In fact, he's oddly wide awake. He has been, lately. His mind is a ticking clock that never seems to sleep. It's infuriating, to say the least — but Newt seems to be suffering the same.

"C'mon, Thomas. Don't be so boring."

Thomas doesn't answer. Instead, he smirks, rolls out of bed, stretches and grins.

"Boring who?" He says, and Newt laughs.

They scamper to remake the beds, leaving on their night gear. Thomas actually quite likes the pyjamas — not exactly fashionable, but warm. Comfy. They're like paddington pyjamas, buttoned up and cuffed. Old timey pyjamas.

Newt takes off his socks at the window, eyes lit up like a firelight. Thomas watches him a bit suspiciously.

"Why do you've got your socks off?" He says, before he can help it. He's kind of shocked at himself — since when had he started to sound so like them?

Newt starts to laugh at him, quiet but high pitched. "Well, well, well. Looks like somebodies starting to fit in!"

"Shut up."

Newt turns away, focusing on unlatching the window, but Thomas is deep in thought. It doesn't seem like much, but it's a little scary. He's adjusted so quickly, so  _well_ , here. How is he possibly going to leave when he's so easily accustomed to their ways? To  _Newts_  ways?

How is he supposed to leave this tiny cottage, in a tiny village with kind hearts and generous souls? He's so used it now — the beach, the lighthouse, the meadow. How will he just suddenly turn it all away?

Does he really want to?

"Oi. Socks off, mister. Get over here."

Thomas doesn't dwell on it — tonight is about adventure, after all.

Thomas abandons the socks, a little wary, standing up to watch as Newt climbs halfway out the window, sitting on the sill. He's waiting for Thomas — but  _God_ , he looks truly beautiful.

The moon is bright and here tonight, casting down aluminous light across the dark lands. It's hit Newts face just right and he looks almost angelic, sitting there. His eyes are half open as he tilts his head back, resting an arm on his knee. He looks like some kind of greek God, and Thomas watches him in awe.

"Well? Are you coming, then?"

So Thomas follows Newt out, hopping neatly onto the cold, dewey grass. It's freezing — Thomas trembles straight away, lifting his toes. He can't believe he didn't hesitate to take off his socks — is he gone mad?

_Stop it. You're not them. Don't speak like them, or think like them._

Newt grins into the night. "Come on," he says, grabbing Thomas' hand. "We have much to do, my friend."

And so, Thomas follows.

They run. The dampness and cold temperatures of the night don't seem to matter anymore. The wind whipping his face and chilling his cheeks make no difference — they just  _run_.

They run across empty fields with soggy grass and wet muck. They run across open country roads and farmland. They run through whistling trees that whisper to the moon, through sandy pathways that tickle their toes.

They run until they simply can't anymore — until Thomas is wheezing and gasping, throat alight and lungs on fire. Until Newts leg is sore and until they're burning with adrenaline.

And that's when Thomas sees where they've ended up.

"The sea," he wheezes, hands on his knees. He's panting crazily, arms and legs shaking. He can't remember the last time he's ran like this. "We ran all that way, just . . . to end up . . . at the  _sea_?"

Newt grins, but he's out of breath too. He's breathing heavily, hand on his chest. He sits down, in fear of his knees buckling.

"Yeah. Sure. Brought us the whole way around," he rasps out, pointing to the opposite direction. "We've just circled everything. The forest is over there, see?"

Thomas turns around, trying to swallow. Newts right, the meadow is just behind those trees. They've just come from a different direction — explored the rest of the land. It's weird, how they've ended up back where they started.

Newt sits down, closing his eyes. It's then that Thomas realises there must be a reason.

"Newt? Why did you bring me here?"

The waves are loud and ambitious as they crash against the shore. Newt smiles a small smile, starting to catch his breath.

"We're going to the lake," is all he says, before he leaps up again and brushes himself down.

Thomas follows again, back up the sandy banks and through the trees, and he feels suddenly sad. This is where all four of them used to go — Minho should be here, too. Mina as well — it doesn't feel right without them.

Mina is home, in bed, safe asleep. Minho is fighting in a war — and it's all  _wrong_.

Newt seems to catch on, because he's suddenly softened, touching Thomas' hand.

"I miss them too," he murmurs, and Thomas kind of wants to kiss him.

The thought freaks him out —  _seriously_ , freaks him out, so he looks away. Newt does the same, and before they know it, they're sat on the edge of the lake, the meadow caved all around them.

Newt grins, brightening the mood again. "Right. Clothes off."

What?

"Sorry?" Thomas says, skeptically. He's already cold enough as it is — and Newt wants him to strip? Is he well?

"Take your clothes off. We're going swimming."

"Naked? Newt, I'm freezing my balls off. No way," Thomas argues — but honestly, the thought of being naked in front of Newt makes him nervous, let alone it being the other way around. He doesn't know what he'd do if he saw him bare.

Newt chuckles, rolling his eyes — and then he pulls his shirt off, wriggling out of it playfully.

"It'll be fun, Thomas," he tries again.

Thomas turns away, again. He can't face Newt like this. Not when his feelings are all over the place, emotions and hormones acting up. He can't do this.

"Newt — I can't —"

"Shut up, Thomas."

And then Newt pulls off the pyjama trousers, left in only briefs that Thomas, for some reason, cannot keep his eyes away from. He really hopes Newt hasn't noticed his staring, because that would be totally, totally fucking embarrassing.

Either way, Newt moves over towards the edge of the pier of the lake, dipping his feet in. "It's cold!" He laughs, as if he was expecting something different.

Thomas can't just watch, so hesitantly, he takes off his shirt, unbuttoning the pyjama top to stall. He's nervous, his fingers are fumbling all over the place and he doesn't trust himself.

He takes off the trousers, feeling hot despite the winter chill attacking his skin. He sits himself next to Newt, hands resting on the wooden ledge, feet frozen already.

"I'm jumping in," Newt declares, mischievous and wicked. He stands up, holding out his hand in invitation. "Coming?"

Thomas hates himself, but he stands up too. "I'm scared," is all he gets to say, before Newt laughs again, the sound ringing in his ears.

Newts laughter is something Thomas never wants to forget — it's something else. It's merry, joyful, loud. It's a sound that mellows a bad mood and provokes a good one.

Everything about Newt seems to be cheerful — even his eyes — fiery, dancing, recklessly laughing. His wheat gold hair sticks up in fluffy tufts, tipping sideways when his head moves.

"Don't be scared," he smiles, and suddenly Thomas is dragged into a frozen underworld, water swallowing him whole and numbing his bones. His whole body jolts at the sharp, rawness of the water, stinging his skin.

As soon as his head meets the surface, he starts shrieking. Newt does too, and together they laugh and shout into the starry sky, splashing and sputtering everywhere.

Thomas is sure they're going to get hypothermia.

"We didn't even bring  _towels_!" He yells, and Newt screams with laughter.

They calm down after a little while, until they're mindlessly floating, teeth chattering madly. It's peaceful, and Thomas closes his eyes.

Until Newt jumps onto him and they stumble underwater, and it's a mess once more.

Once Thomas balances himself again he finds that Newt is still hanging off of him, and he suddenly can't catch his breath.

Newts arms are around his neck, and he's grinning wildly,  _knowingly_. Thomas subconsciously places his arms at the small of Newts back, holding him securely.

And  _fuck_ , does he look hot.

He's slender, smaller than Thomas, but his hair drips across his forehead, skin glossy and creamy and wet. He looks absolutely gorgeous and they're so close —  _so_  close, Thomas feels his throat close over and his eyes widen with anticipation.

They stare at each other. Thomas looks right into Newts dancing eyes, before he trails them back down to his pink, plump lips.

It should be awkward — the silence, the staring, but it isn't. With the gentle thrush of the lakes treasured waters, it's oddly calming.

There's just enough moonlight to make out Newts pretty, pretty smile. Thomas smiles back, but his heart is hammering in his chest and he can't breathe and his chest his tight and ohmygod is that Newt leaning closer —

A hot breath ghosts over Thomas' own.

There's a clutter of slippery rock at the edge of the lake, and Thomas sits, the water pooling at his waist. His hands fumble at Newts hips for guidance, thumbs rubbing.

And then finally, Newt straddles him, looking mysterious and reckless and dark and hot.

"May I?" He whispers, long fingers trailing across Thomas' cheeks, cupping his face with gentle, stray-away fingers.

Thomas can't speak, his mouth is dry and his throat is suddenly clotted, irritatingly. He's confused, lost, a little scared. He wonders foolishly for a second. Does he want this?

Yes. He does.

Newts lips brush across is, uncertain and asking. Thomas, impulsively, surges forward, capturing Newts pretty pink mouth in his own.

His eyes fall shut, and he lets his hands roam across the blonde locks, tangling together. Newt shifts on his lap, slowly beginning to rock his body, inexperienced but a natural.

Thomas pulls him in closer, sliding his hands down his back, his sides, anywhere. His fingers trail across the smooth, silky skin, rubbing softly. His hands eventually settle on Newts hips, moving rhythmically with them.

Thomas finds himself nibbling gently on Newts lower lip — who gasps and opens his mouth in surprise. Thomas isn't one hundred percent sure of what he's doing, but he slides his tongue in, deciding to take control.

Newt let's out a small, needy little mewl, kissing back just as hard, grinding a bit more excessively before letting out a light groan.

It's messy, kind of. Like that typical, wet first kiss. It's not bad, or anything — it's just neither of them really know what to do. But they'll figure it out.

Thomas gasps into Newts mouth, breathless as he pulls away for air. Newt himself is practically glowing in triumph as they grin at each other.

Newt goes in again, but Thomas gently pushes him back with a chaste kiss to the cheek.

"I - it's just - it's cold."

Thomas half laughs through the sentence, shoving his face into the crook of Newts neck, earning a chuckle from the angel on top of him.

"Yeah," said angel says, eyes dark with lust. "Let's hop out, shall we?"

And so they do.

They dry themselves off by spinning in circles — not very effective, but it works — and redress once again. They exchange sweet kisses and hold hands as they venture through the night, hidden by the early hour pitch.

They laugh and whisper to one another, squeezing hands in a newfound joy that sends electric tremors through both their bodies. Thomas can't stop smiling — he doesn't even think about home  _once_.

As they walk back to the cottage — down a back old, long dusty road with a field to the left and a forest to the right, they think about what's to come.

"This," Newt starts, because it has to be addressed. "We mustn't — we can't tell anyone. It has to stay a secret."

Thomas, in all honesty, had forgotten that he's currently in the year 1939 — forgotten that things like this aren't accepted. That things like this could cost them a lot.

"Of course," he says, as if he'd known all along. "Yeah, definitely, Newt. I - I mean — if you want to keep this going—"

"I want to," Newt whispers, smiling with kindness in his eyes. "I really, really do."

"Yeah?" Thomas beams, rubbing his thumb over Newts knuckle. He has no idea what's come over him tonight — but he likes it. It's different. Better.

"Yeah," says Newt, happiness radiating off of him like heat from the sun. He's looking particularly good, and Thomas can't help but kiss him again.

It's gentle this time — slower. Newt links his arms around Thomas' neck and leans up on his tippy-toes. It's cute, and Thomas finds himself smiling into the kiss.

"Alright," he murmurs, pressing his lips to Newts forehead. "Let's head on home."

It doesn't hit him until he's back in bed, still damp and curled around Newt, fingers wandering through blonde tufts and thoughts drifting everywhere.

And then it does. And he feels a jolt in his heart.

 _Home_.

**T U E S D A Y**

The village isn't very busy, of course, but it's sweet and simple and everybody knows everybody. Thomas likes it a whole lot.

As himself and Newt walk down the cobbled little street, the sun shining in tune with the tickling breeze, Thomas soaks in the sights before him. It's madness, really. It's weird how just a street can look so old.

There are children playing all around, with skipping ropes and skinned knees. They're dressed as expected, tiny cotton button up dresses and patent shoes, and scratchy ganseys with torn shirts. Thomas knows he looks like them — but it's weird to think how easy he blends in.

There's hopscotch drawn in chalk on the path, grimy boys and ribboned girls running all around. Mothers and babies are seen somewhere, bustling sellers scattered across the roads.

It's quiet, so quiet, and Thomas stares at every shop window, every poster stuck to the walls — no matter how many times he's been here.  _Dig for victory_ , one says,  _grow your own vegetables._

 _Your country wants YOU_ , says another,  _join the army and God save the king._

Thomas frowns at them. Minho must've gotten inspired by these. How cruel.

Across the street, Mina is skipping along with Dandy, and she waves over at them happily. It's good to see her so carefree, instead of tight lipped and sick with fear. It's better, this way.

As Thomas raises an arm to wave back, Newt shakes it hastily. "Oh, wow! Thomas — look!"

Thomas does look up, from where he's deep in thought yet again — and his eyes widen.

Tanks. Big, hunter green, army tanks are driving on caterpillar treads oh-so-slowly through the tiny village — and he feels his heart race.

They're loud, not too loud, but they cause commotion amongst the villagers. The children gasp in awe, as everyone watches the great machines propel slowly down the cobbled ground.

"They must be just passing through," Newt murmurs, his fingers squeezing Thomas' elbow. "I wonder where they're going."

Thomas hums in agreement, still in mild shock. His mind is aghast — from one thing to another, he doesn't think he'll ever get used to living here.

There are men with big, boxy, press cameras, with wireframe finders and flashbulbs. Old fashioned cameras, per say, and Thomas almost finds them just as fascinating as the tanks.

Newt links arms with Thomas. "They're taking photographs! Come on, let's get in one!"

And so, Thomas is pulled along in front of the huge engine, accompanied by a row of children and adults, lined up and smiling. Mina and Dandy squish in beside them, and Thomas gives her shoulder a squeeze.

The soldiers have paused in their journey, opening up the hatch of the tank to peer out and pose as well, waving their helmets gleefully.

The skies are clear and the sun is pawing at the back of his shirt — Thomas finds himself grinning at the camera as he hears the huge snap-flash as the photograph is taken. Newt is still linked arms with him, beaming beautifully.

There's a huge cheer amongst the crowd, and Thomas watches with an indescribable feeling in his stomach as they all shake hands with one another, doffing their caps at the soldiers in an act of respect.

Newt waves madly. "Here's to victory!"

And as the crowd join in, cheering and hollering for vanquishment, Thomas finds himself smiling sadly. Minho is with them somewhere, fighting for glory.

Minho is strong, resilient, a force to be reckoned with. Thomas can't believe they'd all lost faith in that, so terrified of losing him instead of recognising his strength.

He watches the smiling faces of the soldiers as they pass through, twinkling eyes and shining teeth, and suddenly, he feels okay. Minho, will be okay. He will come home.

Mina must think so too, because she grabs his hand. "Minho will be fine, won't he?"

And because Thomas has a sudden rush of hope and confidence, he grins at her.

"Yes," he tells her, not a single touch of insincerity in his voice. "Yes, he will."

Newt laughs happily at that, and soon enough, they continue their stroll through the street, hearts still wild from the commotion.

Minho  _will_  be fine. Thomas has full trust in that.

And by the looks of it, Newt and Mina do, too.

**T H U R S D A Y**

"You're in the paper, boys," Maggie says, chopping up carrots with ease.

Thomas grabs a fistful and shoves it in his mouth, laughing when she swats at him.

"Are we?" Newt says, stretching upon his arrival in the kitchen. Thomas smirks at him, and Newt sticks his tongue out in return.

"Mhm. Found you in the daily mirror this morning."

It's only just turned eleven o' clock, (considering Maggie likes to get prepared for dinner before it hits noon) and Thomas furrows his brows in confusion.

Newt matches his expression, and they grab the paper set on the small table curiously. It's madness — they're on the front cover, and Thomas finds himself snorting at what it is.

"Oh, man," he says, slapping it down. "Didn't think they'd put that in the paper!"

Newt seems furthermore chuffed with himself. "We look great!" He says, pointing at their smiling faces, the tank right behind them. "I think it's a lovely photo. Everybody looks really well."

Thomas wants to roll his eyes at that, but doesn't. It's interesting to see, if he's honest. He's never been in the newspaper before, let alone one in 1940.

"There's a letter beneath that, too," Maggie says again, but her voice doesn't hold her natural cheeriness. She sounds a little put off, and Thomas feels nerves building up in his stomach.

Newt frowns at her tone, picking up the opened letter. He unfolds it, giving Maggie another funny look before he starts to read, eyes darkening at each line.

After a moment, his nostrils flare and his cheeks start to burn. Thomas watches with a sick feeling as Newts fingers begin to shake, his breath quickening sharply.

"Newt," he says, reaching over. "Newt, let me see."

Newt doesn't respond, his hands almost tearing the letter with a death grip that adds to Thomas' anxiety.

"Newt," he repeats, throat clogging. "Newt, show me the letter. What is it?"

Newt stands up so fast the chair tumbles backwards and creates a loud bang. Thomas flinches, eyes widening at the look of despair on Newts face.

"It's not  _fair_!" He shouts, crumbling the letter and throwing tossing it to the ground, knuckles white. "It's not  _bloody_  fair!"

Thomas scrambles to pick it up, kneeling on the floor as his heart quickens with an uncontrollable rapidity.

He reads the letter. He reads the letter again. And then again. And then he can't because his vision is too blurry to make out any words.

MIA. MIA is the only thing he can read.

Newt is shouting faintly in the back of his mind, but it's fuzzy and incoherent. He can't hear it. There's only one thing he can focus on.

Minho is missing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello
> 
> ooof plot twisttttt  
> anyways i hope u all enjoyed this chapter considering i died and resurrected today lol
> 
> it's gonna get hella sad from here on (i hope yIkeS) and prepare for some more wackass shit  
> also newt and thomas finally kissed lol
> 
> anyways, thank u all for keeping up with this. it means a lot. truly. i love u.
> 
> also shoutout to @bookara for being my best bitch. ily gal
> 
> see u next time kiddos
> 
> — bee


	8. eight  ; A L I G H T

❝ _follow your intuition_ _._ ❞  
 _—_ _RKG_

_April, 1940_

**W E D N E S D A Y**

It's starting to scare Thomas, how quickly time has passed here.

The first three months of 1940 had been tough — tougher than the rest. Rationing has come in even worse, seemingly so. Shop shelves are empty and farming is still taking it's time. The ground was hard and crumbly, difficult to work on, during the coldest months.

The January days seemed to be damp, too. Drowsy, gloomy. It rained all the time, and the only thing Thomas could think then was that the world is fucking bleak.

Newt had lost a little bit of that gleam in his eyes — but the mystery is still there. He still knows.  _What_  exactly, Thomas can't say, but he's still hiding something behind those faraway orbs. They still tell too much.

But he's always known — and he always will.

Not to mention Minho is God knows where now — they check the mail every day, hoping,  _praying_ , that he's okay. Mina is out of bounds for all February and March, and where she went or what she was doing, Thomas still doesn't know, but he hopes she's happy. Dandy, should keep her happy. At least.

Things don't feel like an adventure anymore. The world is darker, meaner, harsher, rougher. It's getting scary, now, and Thomas feels a sick, tight, twist in his gut when he thinks about it.

He forgets that he's still in the middle of a goddamn war — a war that has chewed up and spat out the innocent lives of those that are lost. The lives of those that are fighting for victory. Those that beat the odds and destroy fate.

Those that come home, and those that don't.

March hadn't been much better — brighter, maybe, but not better. Newt and Thomas had spent their long, long days on the farm, or in the lighthouse. They'd returned to visiting the beach — it'd gotten too cold during February, and the first sight of blooming flowers sent them right back to where they started.

Now, at the beginning of April, things are still the same. Sunnier, warmer, a little bit easier. But Minho is still nowhere to be seen, Mina is hiding from everyone, Newt is chewing his nails and fidgeting nervously all the time, and Thomas is wondering about what the fuck is going on.

But they have hope. Or, maybe not — but at least they pretend they do. Newt smiles if he catches Thomas staring at him, and Thomas does the same. They still whisper girlishly and kiss sweetly when no ones watching — and those are the nights Thomas remembers why he wants to stay.

They hold hands and peck softly beneath the sheets. They trace each other's features and squeeze tight during the hours the whole world is asleep. When prying eyes and curious ears leave them alone. When sinister whispers and mocking voices vanish into the darkness, and they are at peace.

Because Minho is still gone. And Thomas' mind won't let him forget it.

Right now, his mind is settled, and so is he. The beach is empty again, taken over by himself and Newt's sandy footprints and secret echoes, lingering through the air.

"I'm fuckin' cold," Newt spits out, sourly. He's been in a mood all day, snapping every two seconds and muttering grumpily under his breath. He's been more upset than happy, lately, and Thomas doesn't even have to ask why.

Trying to be nice, Thomas places his arm around Newt's shoulder, hugging him to his chest. "Better?" He asks, because Newt is fighting a grin off his face.

"Get offa' me, would ya?" He mumbles, but he's smiling. He can't hide it, and Thomas rolls his eyes and pulls him in tighter. They both have chattering teeth and goosebumps on their skin, but that doesn't wash out the shining sun and the glistening sea. It's okay, right now.

Newt rests his head on Thomas' shoulder. "I'm bloody sick of this." He shifts uncomfortably, lifting his leg halfway across Thomas' thigh. "I really am. It's so . . . what's that word you use? Retarded?"

Thomas smiles at that. They've been learning off each other, he supposes.

"Yeah. It is."

Newt pulls a knee to his chest, resting his arm across it. He wants to say something — Thomas can tell. He has been, for a while now. He keeps biting his tongue and holding back —somethings bugging him, and he won't say what.

"Something on your mind?" Thomas murmurs, nudging him gently. Newt snorts, rolling his eyes and lifting his head off of Thomas' shoulder.

"No."

"Yes there is," Thomas presses, because he can tell, these days. Newt, no matter how hard he tries to close himself off, is getting easier to read. Maybe it's because Thomas spends every single second with him — but he's like an open book, lately.

"I'm just mad at stuff. Don't push it, Thomas," Newt almost snaps, but Thomas rests his cheek on Newts shoulder and hums softly. It's hard. And he gets it, he really does.

Thomas would have never expected it to be like this — not in a million years. He knew it was going to be tough, hell, wartime always is, but not — not like  _this_.

When he'd first arrived here, he had no idea what to expect. Fuck — he still doesn't, but he knows his place, now. He hadn't, back then. But Minho took him under his wing, gave him shelter and warmth for the night. Treated him as an equal despite Thomas acting like a maniac.

That was six months ago. He can't believe he's been here this long. Six, whole months. Stuck in World War Two — and it's terrifying to him, because what if he really never gets back to the future? What if he's truly stuck here forever?

Will he grow old with Newt? Die during an air raid? Get lost at sea? Discover the secrets of the universe? Change the world? Forget the future?

With the way things are going, Thomas is starting to thing he's really never getting back to where he comes from — and it tortures him.

He likes it here. He does. Newt does things to him — and he hates, hates,  _hates_  how it has to be during 1940. God, what he would do to change time and have Newt in the future, instead. Fuck.

But it's not easy. Thomas has no clue on how to get back home, things are starting to get unnerving, Minho could be dead for all they know, and who knows what's going to happen. To them, to Mina, to those lost in the war.

Thomas  _really_  wishes he paid more attention when they were going over this in history class.

Newt shrugs Thomas off his shoulder. "Let's go back home. I'm cold."

So, they jump up, dust off the sand, and head on back to the cottage.

Yeah, things are daunting, right now. But at least they've got each other.

That's what really matters.

**T H U R S D A Y**

They're in the lighthouse.

Newt is lazily sprawled all over the couch, resting on his stomach. A dusty old book is clutched in his hands, draping over the arm of the sofa, and Thomas wonders feebly for a moment what it's about.

He, himself, is sat on a rug on the floor, his back resting against a leg of the couch, wondering.

The sunlight streams in through the windows, casting summery filters across the room, the many tan hues varied and beaming brightly. The yellow rays paint the walls, their faces, their hands. It's hot, through the glass, warm and rubbery on their skin.

Newt lets out another overly dramatic sigh of his, dropping the book to the floor. Thomas watches with absentminded curiosity as it erupts into a pile of dust modes, sending Newt into a coughing fit.

He sits upright on the sofa, collecting himself and brushing down his shirt. They've been dressing with less layers, lately, and Thomas finds he likes the warm weather attire much more.

"What's it about?"

Newt looks up, hair a wheat-gold from the sun. "What?"

"The book. What's it about?"

Newt shrugs, still seeming to be in a somewhat foul mood. "I dunno. It's not important, s'it?"

Thomas has to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain himself from saying something he'll regret. He's just  _tired_  of this — tired of Newt feeling upset and moody all the time. It's not like he doesn't get it — he does. Christ, he misses Minho too.

"Just making conversation," he settles on saying, picking at a loose string of the rug. "I don't like how quiet it is up here."

Newt seems to soften at that. "Me neither. It's not right, without them. Is it?"

"No," Thomas murmurs, ducking his head. "No, it isn't."

Newt frowns, lying back down on the sofa, on his back this time. He turns his head, meeting the side of Thomas' face. "You're still quite odd, you know."

Ah, there he is. Tactless, typical Newt.

But even so, Thomas has to laugh. "Oh, really?"

"Mhm," Newt is smiling now. "Especially with that haircut of yours."

Now, it's Thomas' turn to frown, but playfully. "What's wrong with my hair?"

It's a silly question, of course. Thomas' hair is long overdue a cut, and it's grown out and messy. It's not terrible — mind you — it's just not his style. It's shaggy and unkept, but Thomas finds he doesn't really care.

Instead, he reaches up to poke at Newts sides, who starts squealing almost immediately. He starts tickling Newts belly, climbing up onto the sofa and straddling his waist.

Newt is screaming with laughter, as Thomas pokes and squeezes and tickles all over his body — chuckling himself as he does so. Newt is gasping, now, begging for mercy, and Thomas just laughs and laughs and laughs.

And then he stops, looking at Newts grinning face. Then he leans down to kiss him. Just because he can. Because nobody can see them, and they're free to act however they like.

It's sweet, as their kisses are, and Newt smiles into it straight away. Thomas cups his pale face gently, and settles himself between Newts legs, letting him wrap them around his own waist.

"You have  _no_  idea what you do to me," he says, huskily. Newt smirks at that, tangling his fingers through Thomas' knotty locks. And then they kiss and kiss and kiss.

The sunlight streams through the windows. The yellow rays paint the walls.

Things are getting better.

**S U N D A Y**

"Oh, I do love spring!" Maggie says, cheerily.

Newt and Thomas are on their hands and knees next to her, digging. They're gardening, growing their own shit, apparently. Thomas doesn't even know what he's doing, but he's copying the both of them in hopes he's not tragically destroying the plants.

"Me too," Newt nods in agreement, very enthusiastically. Thomas finds it kind of amusing and bows his head to hide his smile.

Maggie seems to know exactly what she's doing, and it takes the whole morning to dig a small patch of ground. They're sweating and breathless in the hot sun, despite it only being April.

They're in shorts, now. Beige or copper coloured shorts, still styled with the braces and knee length socks. Thomas has a creamy-brown short-sleeved shirt on, the top buttons undone due to the scorching spring heat.

Newt has ditched his signature cap, it being too warm now and scalding his head. His hair now tangles freely in the warm breeze, blonde and golden and pretty.

After they'd dug the ground, they follow Maggie's careful instructions on sewing the seeds. Cabbages, broccoli, turnips, carrots — all kinds of vegetables.

"We've got to play our part, boys," Maggie had said, handing them both a gardening tool. "If we do can at least provide something to help, we'll do it."

And so, that's how Newt and Thomas end up spread out on the grass, resting beneath the shade of an oak tree, eyes closed and mouths shut to silence. It's peaceful, allowing the blazing heat lick their tanned faces, melt into their sticky skin.

Maggie and Charles are sitting on the bench, drinking cold classes of lemonade. They're chatting happily away; not paying any attention to Newt and Thomas in the corner of the front garden.

The cobbled little wall that surrounds the house helps with shading out the sun, and Thomas squints and turns his head to a different angle — trying to block out the heat. Newt notices and does the same, and they end up head to head, opposite each other.

They start cloud watching.

"That one looks like a duck," Newt points out, using the other hand to shield his eyes. Thomas doesn't see it, whether it be because it's upside down to him or it just really doesn't look like a duck, he doesn't know.

"Look," Thomas grins, cheekily. "That one looks like a newt!"

It kind of does, if he's being honest, but Newt smacks him in the arm playfully.

"Shut up, Thomas."

Thomas does, and they watch the airy, faint white clouds flutter by, taking the worlds worries with them.

"That one looks like a tank," Newt says, after some time.

"I don't see it."

"Course you don't — you haven't got an eye as good as mine!"

"Uh, yeah I do."

"Nuh-uh!"

Newt sits up and flips himself over Thomas, and gradually, the two of them begin wrestling on the grass, rolling around and creating green stains on their clothes.

They're only playing, roughhousing — but Charles calls over and tells them to quit it. Maggie waves her hand at him. "Oh, hush, Charles," she says, shaking her head. "You know boys will be boys."

Newt is on top of Thomas now, pinning his arms down with a mad hatters grin. But, Thomas is bigger than him, and finds it not even that difficult to flip them over again.

They continue their play fight until they actually settle down, gasping and wheezing with smiles that hurt their cheeks. Maggie comes over to them with a tray containing sandwiches for lunch, along with the jug of lemonade, and the four of them have a little picnic.

Charles has set a blanket down beneath the tree, and they pass around plates and cups, cheerful and joyous. They're like a little family, and Thomas  _wishes_  Minho and Mina were here as well to enjoy the party. Dandy, too, with her baked goods.

He wishes life wasn't so cruel.

Even so, they enjoy lunch. They eat and laugh and tell stories and Thomas tries not to cower beneath everyone's gaze. He can feel Newts eyes on him and he hates himself for stuttering.

It's difficult, creating a life in one so foreign to him. He hates when they ask him questions he can't answer — and he's so damn sick of lying.

But there's no other way, is there?

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Eventually, when the sun starts to set and Maggie and Charles fold up the blankets and bring in the remains of the picnic, Newt and Thomas head off towards the beach.

It's reaching dusk, and the warmth of the day is swallowed by the underground, dipping beneath them in replacement of cold breeze.

They walk in silence, and Thomas has a horrible feeling Newt has sussed him out. But how could he possibly understand? What could he know, about time travel, the future? How could he  _possibly_  figure it out?

Once they've reached the meadows, passed through the lake, walked through the forest, and sat themselves on the sand, Newt finally talks.

"You're lying about something."

And Thomas  _feels_  his balls go cold. "I—what?"

Newts expression is stony and serious — it doesn't suit him. He stares straight ahead at the sea, watching the salty water soak up the sun.

"You're lying. You have been since the day we got here. What are you hiding?"

Newt finally turns to face him, and Thomas swallows thickly. It's in his eyes. It's always in his eyes.

"I'm not hiding anything." He turns away.

"Bullshit," Newt snaps, frowning hard. "I'm not an idiot, Thomas. I've just never asked. Because I knew it'd make you uncomfortable. But, I'm asking now. So tell me. Tell me about your life in London, then."

Thomas' palms are sweaty. "T-tell you what?"

Newt shrugs, but he's angry, now. "I dunno. Your school, maybe? Your family? Your life? I don't know, Thomas, maybe something that isn't just pure  _shit_."

He spits that out, almost, and Thomas winces at his tone. "I - what do you want to know, Newt?"

"Why you're so bloody nervous every time someone mentions anything about your background," Newt mutters, bitterly. Thomas doesn't get why he's so mad about it — what's it got to do with him, anyways?

"Okay, well," he starts off, softly, because Newt is pissed and he doesn't like it. "I grew up in New Jersey, in America. Then, my parents died and I moved in with my aunt in London."

Newt sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and Thomas tries not to get distracted as he continues his . . . story.

"I moved here like, a year ago. I was online schooled, instead."

"Online schooled?" Newt wrinkles his nose. "What's that?"

Shit.  _Shit_. Is he dumb?

Thomas swallows and tries not to stammer like the idiot he is. "I-it's uh, something we have where I come from."

"Where you come from seems to be a whole other world, sometimes," Newt sighs, watching the sun go down. "Sometimes I think you're from a whole other time."

_If only you knew._

Thomas laughs, albeit a little nervously, and thanks the Gods that Newt doesn't bother asking anymore questions. He gently nudges his shoulder with his own, and Newt grins at him, all traces of anger vanished.

"You're different," he says, softer. "I like it."

"I like you," Thomas smirks, and Newt turns to playfully smack his arm. "Don't go all sappy on me, you drat."

Thomas smiles at that. And then he kisses him.

He usually does — he likes surprising Newt with small, gentle kisses. It always leaves him gasping in mild shock, before transitioning into that melting, moulding feeling as their lips move together.

Cupping the back of Newts head, Thomas slowly eases his mouth open with his tongue, combing his fingers through the blonde locks. Newt is more than happy to comply, massaging his tongue against Thomas' — letting the older boy lick into his mouth.

Thomas, after some time, places his hands on Newts hips, lifting him onto his lap. Newt, breathless and flushed, carefully spreads his legs, straddling him.

They kiss and kiss and kiss — eyes fluttered shut and hands tracing one another. It's perfect — so perfect, just as it always is, and Thomas can't think of anything other than Newt. Just, Newt.

"Oi — Fags!"

Newt breaks away with a breathy gasp, eyes wild and searching for the bodiless voice. He immediately rolls off of Thomas, face still hot and red and burning with desire.

Thomas follows his eyes, watching Newts features twist into fear and panic, an alarmed expression morphed into his face. He dusts off the sand and stands up on wobbly legs, his chest rising unevenly as he turns his head this way and that.

"Newt," Thomas murmurs, reaching out to him. "Newt, Newt, relax. It doesn't matter what they think—"

"Yes it does, Thomas!" Newt spits out, spinning to face him with exasperation. "Who knows what could happen to us if people find out! Don't you  _care_?"

And it's then that it really hits Thomas how much more fucked up Newts world is. How much scarier, it is. They don't live in peace — they live in irrational fear, dubious unsettlement, undoubted despair.

Back in the future, LGBTQ+ posters are strung across the walls — films are created about it's history, rights have been made for those. Gay marriage is legal in some places. People are accepted, supported, paraded.

Of course, there's still homophobia throughout the world — tragic, horrific, terrifying homophobia — but not like this. Not back in a time where this stuff just isn't  _accepted_.

"Oh, hell, Thomas," Newt whispers, then. "We are royally  _fucked_."

Thomas, with cold feet and a hammering heart, eyes the beach nervously. There's a strange, unsettling atmosphere now, and he feels fear pump rapidly through his veins. They have to go. Run. Hide.

It's dark, now, the twinkling stars corrupting across the sky like sparkling freckles. The eerie blackness of the night sends chills through Thomas' spine, and impulsively, he clutches Newt's hand and tugs him along the beach.

They've got to get to the lighthouse.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Newt is shaking.

Thomas doesn't know how to comfort him — he can hear the uproar outside, too.

It's terrifying. As if the fear of bombs getting dropped on you isn't enough — now they have to deal with this. This.

They're hiding at the top of the lighthouse, their backs against the round surfaced wall. They're so high up, yet they can still hear the small gathered crowd causing havoc outside.

"I hate this," Newt mumbles, head in his hands. His feet are curled in with his knees to his chest. "Can't they just go  _away_?"

Thomas doesn't think they're going to be leaving any time soon, but he doesn't say so.

Instead, he takes Newts hand in his, rubbing his thumb the knuckle softly. "We'll be fine," he says, trying to sound braver than he feels.

There's a chorus of jeers and cruel laughter, faint but still clear through the window. Newt flinches at their petty insults, and Thomas wishes he could grow a pair and tell them all to fuck right off.

There's a good bunch, out there. Screaming, shouting, banging on the doors right at the bottom of the lighthouse. They're causing chaos, and Thomas hasn't felt this sick since his first day in 1939.

Newt trembles next to him, face forlorn and brown eyes wide. Nerves wrack his bones, and he squeezes Thomas' hand every time they roar.

He closes his eyes. "I'm scared, Thomas."

Thomas has no words of comfort, though he wishes he could say something to make Newt feel better. Anything — anything at all.

"They'll go away eventually," he chokes out, trying his best to steady his voice. "They'll get bored. They won't stay all night."

That seems to settle Newt a bit, and the pair of them try to relax the tension built inside the cylinder room. There's lights flashing outside, the round glass illuminating the events down below. Thomas sucks in a breath when he sees a fire-like light cast across the windows.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, turning over to crawl on his knees. Carefully, he gradually raises his head to peak out the window, eyes widening when he sees what's actually going on.

There's a huge crowd of angry, boiling and seemingly drunk, staggering men. They're holding lit pitchforks and fire torches and Thomas has never felt his mouth go dry this fast. Newt whimpers beside him, having copied his motion and figured out the acts himself.

"Fuck," Thomas says again, placing his hand on his forehead. "Shit, Newt. They've got fuckin' fire."

Newt makes an odd strangling noise that sounds between a choke and a cry, placing his hands over his eyes. "Oh, God, Thomas! What do we do? You have to tell me what to do!"

Well, he would. If he knew himself.

"I-I don't know, Newt," Thomas whispers, more to himself, because there's an incredible loud chorus of shouting going on and it's echoing in his mind. The walls feel smaller, and everything feels tighter — he feels like he's going to pass out but he  _can't_  because Newt can't handle this —

"Thomas! Thomas, oh God,  _Thomas—"_

There's a sickening noise that sounds like glass shattering from down below, and Thomas feels his stomach twist with horrible nerves as the roaring gets louder.

They've broken in. Shit, they're  _inside_.

Newt starts panicking, standing up restlessly. He starts pacing madly, tugging at his hair in a state of anxiety. He's almost hysterical, and Thomas grabs his wrist in an attempt to calm him down.

"Newt, fuck, Newt chill,  _chill_ , sit down —  _Jesus_ , Newt just  _sit down—"_

And then the colour drains from both their faces at the explosion that erupts from the first floor of the lighthouse. They go silent. Eerily, silent.

It's like they've both gone to shock. Because they've set the lighthouse on fire — and they're trapped inside.

"Newt," Thomas manages to force out of his clogged throat. "Newt, don't move. Whatever happens, do not move. Stay here, okay?"

Newt wheezes out an okay, nodding his head, and Thomas hates to leave him, but he has to figure a way out. They're stuck — in a  _fucking_  fire.

His mind is foggy and incoherent as he slowly latches onto the banisters that lead to the wooden spiral stairs — and he feels sick at the stink of burning rubber and building thick smoke.

Hastily, because the stairs haven't caught the flame, he makes his way down them, hating himself for not having a jumper on to cover his mouth with. His eyes begin to water at the unfairness of it all.

He makes do with his hand, throwing it over his mouth and nose in a desperate attempt to help prevent the smoke waiting below from getting into his lungs. He's fucking terrified — he's never been stuck in a fire before.

 _Maybe I should stop drop and roll,_ he thinks to himself, the dark humour causing him to frown harder. Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs he takes a deep breath — because this could go so incredibly  _wrong_.

The handle of the trapdoor is already scalding, and Thomas throws it open as quickly as he can, jumping backwards at the burning heat that attacks his skin.

The stairs to the trapdoor aren't on fire yet, either — but Thomas doesn't push his look, and without thinking, rushes down them, trying to block out the gray smoke collecting amongst the burning objects.

Checking that it's safe, he turns and scans the room, eyeing a way out that won't kill them both. He's angry, and the raging flames licking at the cutting wood almost matches the burning fire inside his stomach. He can't  _believe_  a bunch of  _fuckers_  did that to them.

Newt appears at the top of the stairs, then, coughing and wheezing at the spreading conflagration. Thomas sees him and his heart drops.

"Goddamnit, Newt I said don't move!"

Newt has both his pasty hands covering his mouth, and he shakes his head, a bitter choke escaping his raspy throat.

"I had to," he hacks out, his dark eyes alight with the fire. "I had to Thomas —  _Thomas_!"

And that's when the stairs collapse.

Thomas hadn't even seen it coming — but when he hears the disturbing crackle of the caving in steps, his eyes widen in horror as the wooden structure gives away — crashing down with a head-thumping shatter.

His heart is racing wildly in his chest, now, the nerves ploughing through his bones with endless horror. This can't be happening.

" _Fuck_  — Newt!"

Newt curls up at the top of the trapdoor, gasping now. He's not able for this — he's too worked up. He needs to calm down if he's going to get out of here — Thomas tries not to breakdown.

The heat is slicing at his skin, and throat is clotted with coughs that threaten to suck in smoke to his lungs. He feels dizzy — lightheaded. He's unsteady on his feet, and he rubs at his eyes hastily to try get himself together.

He can't focus on anything anymore. It's just fire, fire, fire.

_Newt. Fire. Minho's letter. Escape. Get out. Water. Breathe._

Newt is shouting something Thomas can't make out — his mind has gone hazy and everything is all fuzzy. His hands go to his head, fisting at his hair, pulling and pulling.

He forgets — he's inhaling smoke and Newts screaming now, voice breaking and getting caught with the blistering heat surrounding them. Suffocating them.

_Minho's letter. Get Newt out. Escape. Water. Breathe._

Thomas is on his knees now, crawling. Where to — he doesn't know. He can't see. He can hear Newt howling, but his words don't make sense and Thomas can't open his eyes to make them out.

There's another stomach-turning sound of splintering wood, seconds away of collapsing to the ground. Thomas doesn't know where it's coming from — all he knows is that it's hot, too-hot and scalding and his skin is on fire and Newt is screaming —

And it's when he hears the ringing sound of something collapsing, close to him, he finally hears something that makes sense.

" _Tommy_!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again !!!  
> so it's 2:30am phEw someone come catch these hands  
> ANYWAYS i hope u all enjoy this chapter, as i say in every single one it's gonna get SAD as SHIT   
> i swear it will. just wait. i will rip ur heart out.  
> thank you again, for everything.  
> i love u.
> 
> see u later, kiddos.
> 
> — bee


	9. nine ; B R A V E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song newt is singing in this is called "don't sweetheart me" by geraldo and his orchestra if u wanna listen hehe  
> the part he sings is the beginning, and then it skips closer to the end, at like 2:10 :)))

❝ _what a plot twist you were._ ❞  
 _— faraway_

**S U N D A Y**

Thomascan't breathe.

He's fighting for air, for oxygen, for Newt. He's on his hands and knees, curled up as the fire dances around him like flaming, smouldering faeries, mocking him. Taunting him.

The heat flicking at his skin is none less than a furnace — a red-hot, blistering, sweltering, fierce fire developing rapidly across the wooden construction. It eats away at the cindered timber, coating the walls in thick ash.

Thomas' throat is dry and raspy, clogged and clotted with the dense smoke produced from the torches. He feels sick, and with a heavy head supported by a body that suddenly seems to be made out of string, he can't do anything besides lie in a ball. Pathetically.

Newt is still screeching from where he's stuck on the second floor, with no stairs to help him down. He's shouting and shouting — jumbled up words that forge together in a smoggy sentence souped up in Thomas' head.

He feels like his brain is melting through his ears, his whole body lead-like and limp. Useless.

"Thomas!" Newt cries out, in desperation. His own throat is raw and scratchy, tender from all his hollering. He's on his knees, peaking over into where he has a birds-eye view of the bottom floor — and Thomas, himself, curled up and almost passed out.

The wood is hot and dangerous beneath his fingertips, and Newt panics thinking about how this ceiling can cave in. How  _he_  can cave in, and come crashing down beneath the raging flames of fire.

"Thomas,  _please_!" Newt tries again, hoarse and cracked. His vision is blurry with tears of despair — tears of fury, of fear. He doesn't know what to do, he needs Thomas to tell him what to do. How does he get down? How do they get help? What do they  _do_ —

"Newt!" Thomas suddenly coughs out, a horrible, hacking, gravelling sound that's painful to listen to. "Newt, get away from there! G-get to the top floor! Call for help!"

"Those windows don't open!" Newt hollers as loud as he can, face twisted into one of terror and distress. His eyes well up with tears again, thick, heavy tears that sting his eyes, threatening to fall.

Thomas, somehow, manages to push himself into his elbows, breathing heavily and harshly, a great pain soaring through him. His struggle is something he's never experienced before, and he wonders for a moment if he's going to die here. Everything is faint and far away, and he's losing himself in the chaos of it all, swallowed up by hells fire.

And then Newt roars again, screaming despite his evident hoarse throat. Thomas tries to get himself together — Newt has to get help. He has to.

"P-people will see!" He wheezes out, hoping he can hear him. "Wave at the window, bang on the glass — fuckin' hell Newt I don't  _care_  — just do  _something_!"

His old side is seemingly coming out to play, and he'd get mad at himself if he weren't depending on this to save his life. Newt doesn't respond, and for a horrible moment Thomas thinks he's gone — but he looks up and just catches Newt disappearing behind the ceiling, heading back towards the top.

He swallows down the burn in his lungs, and stays put. He isn't one hundred percent sure that where he's stuck is safe — but he doesn't trust himself to try relocate himself somewhere else. The fire spits at him, ferocious and menacing and heartlessly cruel.

He's never been in a fire before — and, quite frankly, he never wants to be in one again. His heart hammers insanely in his chest, reminding him that he is, very much in fact, alive.

It seems like eternity until he hears a chorus of shouts from outside — a mixture of voices mellowed together in a blurry ooze that sickles through his ears. He can barely hear, but they're there.

Newt has seemingly returned, croaking out another yell. "They're coming! Help is coming!"

Thomas finds that his eyes are closed — he doesn't remember closing them. When did he close them? Or is everything just black?

Newt screeches again. "Stay with me, Thomas! Keep your eyes open! Thom—" 

He's interrupted by his own cough, the smoke swirling across the ceiling and delving into his throat. Newt hacks it out painfully, shoving his face into the crook of his elbow.

There's another harsh roar outside, and a faint, piercing siren sound in the distance. They're coming. They're going to be okay.

Thomas can hear the fuzzy siren, and for a moment, he ponders over awakening his eyes, and he does, holding them half-open as the heat seems to intensify.

And then, just like his arrival here —

Everything goes black.

**M O N D A Y**

Thomas doesn't like hospitals.

He never has — but he  _especially_  doesn't like hospitals in 1940.

They're much scarier. He keeps reminding himself that it's not so bad — doctors aren't totally clueless — but it's hard. With the modern, scientific discoveries that 2019 has to offer, it's hard to decipher this time into knowing practically anything.

So as he's sat on the classic old-fashioned bed of the narrow room, he tries to settle his nerves. He's not even roughed up too badly — a few burns here and there, and maybe stuffed lungs from the smoke. That can't be too risky to deal with, right?

"Why, hello there, darlin'. How are you feeling?"

Thomas turns his gaze onto the disembodied voice, coming face to face with none other than a nurse. She's dressed in a quaint nurse uniform — the pinafore hugging her waist with the white apron tied around it. Puffed sleeves confine around her upper arm, patent black shoes completing the outfit.

A nurse cap sits around her head neatly, thick curls escaping beneath it and framing her face. She has red lipstick on that contrasts against her pale complexion, fading her rosy cheeks. She smiles brightly, and pearly white teeth compliment her features.

Thomas swallows, unsure of what to say. What way do people address things in 1940? He doesn't want to sound like a total freak.

"Uh, hi," he ends up burbling out, hoping he doesn't sound as nervous as he feels. Or as stupid. "I feel fine. Thanks."

She leans over, straightening out his sheets and handing him a plastic cup of water. "That's good. You should drink up, honey."

Thomas takes it from her, murmuring out a thanks, before placing it to his lips. The liquid feels unbelievable, soothing his raspy throat and cooling his mouth. It feels great,  _so great_ , and he gulps it down as fast as he can.

She laughs lightly, taking the cup once he's finished. "Sure that helped a ton, hadn't it?"

Thomas nods, a faint feeling of relief washing over him. This is fine. It's fine. He's fine.

The nurse sets the cup on the small table beside his bed, sitting down on a chair and crossing her legs. She has a clipboard in her hands, and Thomas doesn't bother wondering what it's for.

"So, Thomas, correct?" She starts, and Thomas feels a bit sick thinking about the questions she's going to ask. What if she asks his address? His parents? His family?

How can he tell her that his family are back in the future, with no worries of a war and modern technology and possibly looking for him?

"Yeah, it's Thomas," he ends up muttering, picking at the sheets. He's uncomfortable, to say the least. He doesn't like being questioned. Ever.

"And you're staying in under the temporary custody of Margaret and Charles Hampshire?"

Thomas nods again, and wonders faintly how she knows that.

"So you're from London? An evacuee?"

"Yes, ma'am," Thomas says, trying to sound polite. She gives him a funny look, and he asks himself if he said something stupid. He probably did.

She nods anyways, writing down what Thomas guesses to be his answers. "And how long have you been staying here? With the Hampshire's?"

Thomas doesn't know why that's a necessary question, but he answers as honest as he can anyways. Who cares.

"You got lucky, hon," she mutters out, scribbling down nonsense. "Only a few minor burns, a rather nasty one on the leg, though, and mild inhalation of smoke. You must have been very guarded for such clement injuries."

All Thomas remembers, if he's being honest, is Newt screaming in the background and him curled up tightly, hiding from the flames. He doesn't know what was blocking him — but he could definitely feel the heat. It's a wonder he walked away not burnt to the crisp.

"Yeah," he says, drowsily. "Yeah, I was."

She pats his knee, giving him an awkward smile. "Well, you're very fortunate. I'll call your family in, okay?"

He nods, watching her rise and smooth her uniform, exiting the room moments after. He sighs, sinking back into the pillows. They're not comfortable — neither is the bed. The mattress may as well be solid ground and the sheets are cold and tight and thin.

He'd give anything to be at home, in his own bed, with his fluffy pillows and snuggly duvet. His mattress is like a cloud, and he wishes he could go back — just for a second, to take a quick nap and then return to finish what he's started.

Newt comes running in then, scabby-kneed and scruffy-headed. He looks tired, but he's smiling big and relieved and looks as beautiful as always. Thomas holds out his hand, and he takes it hastily, clutching it tight.

"You're okay!" He breathes out, eyes wide and bold. "Gosh, Thomas, I golly well thought you were gone — It was so  _scary_ —"

"I'm sure it was," Thomas murmurs, rubbing a thumb across Newts knuckle. He'd been out of it for the majority of the time, and he can't imagine the horrible, awful feeling Newt had to go through.  

Maggie and Charles come in, then, and Newt rips his hand away from Thomas' rather noticeably — but they don't seem to pay attention, smiling at him.

"Thomas, love, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Maggie scolds lightly, playfully smacking his arms. "You naughty, naughty boy! What must you both been up to?"

Thomas knows she's asking about the start of the fire, and he turns away, hatred fizzling in his gut. He hates them. Whoever did it — he hates them. They can go to fucking hell and rot there for all he cares.

"They had blowtorches," Newt rushes to explain, sitting down on the seat the nurse had been in minutes ago. "I guess one must have caught with a rug, or something. They threw it in."

Thomas guesses that Newt must've explained the part about the men that set it alight, and turns his head away.

"What were you doing in that lighthouse, anyhow?" Charles speaks up, raising a brow. Thomas doesn't really feel like lying to him — he has a feeling it wouldn't work, and he doesn't fancy getting caught out.

"We like to explore," he says, honestly. "Nobody's ever in there, and we've been going there for a few months. I didn't think it'd be much of a problem."

Charles tut-tuts, shaking his head. "It's not your property — and whoever it belongs to will sooner or later find out that it went up in flames. What do you think happens next?"

Thomas wants to fucking kick himself. How could they have been so stupid? Actually, scratch that — how could  _he_  have been so stupid?

"Pay for it," he mutters, slightly surprised when Charles shakes his head.

"No, silly," he says, smiling faintly. "Press charges. It wasn't the property of those that set it on fire, either."

Thomas doesn't settle at that, and judging by Newt's deer-in-headlights look, he doesn't either.

"It doesn't matter," he scrambles out, shifting on the bed. "I'm fine, and me and Newt didn't even see the guys. We'd never find them, anyways."

"Not if you don't try," Charles hurries to say, adamant about justice. "You'll know 'em if you see 'em."

"I think we should leave it, for now," Newt jumps in, swallowing nervously when he looks at Thomas. "Let's just wait for Thomas here to get better, yeah?"

They all seem to agree on that, and Thomas finally relaxes.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

He can't see, but he can hear them.

The nurse is delicate with her choice of words as she goes over his injuries — making sure to emphasise just how oh-so-lucky he is. He  _was_.

There's not much to be done.

Thomas chews his lip as he cranes his neck to listen — not that he shouldn't know, he's just impatient. He's not too badly hurt — but he's iffy here and there. Must be luck of time, for him to be so well off after  _that_.

"There's a few antibiotic ointments I'd like him to apply to the mild burns on his arms, with a light gauze to protect the area. However, the second-degree burn on his leg is slightly more severe. It's affected the epidermis and the dermis, and may cause blistering — which is normal, I'll add — and will require cleaning daily to remove dead skin, and dressing changes twice a day. Those can be painful, so an analgesic is recommended. Any questions?"

Thomas swallows. That sounds like a lot. Won't Maggie and Charles have to pay for this? They don't exactly have a bunch of money lying around — and he suddenly feels like a fucking asshole.

Newt is beside him, staring at him with big eyes and wet lips. "It's alright," he tries to reassure, because it's too silent. "You're alright. Aren't you?"

He's worried all over again, eyes widening at the thought of it.

And Thomas nods, because despite it all, he will forever need to be the one to make everything seem okay.

Newt smiles, relieved, and Thomas remembers that's why he does what he does.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Later that very day, Thomas and Newt sit on the sofa in the living room. It's rather late — maybe nine? Charles and Maggie have gone out, for card games at the neighbours, leaving them with warm soup and biscuits at the table.

That leaves Newt and Thomas alone, in the dimly lit room, the fireplace lit and crackling lightly. They'd been a bit nervous at fist, lighting a fire so soon —  _literally_  the day after what went down in the lighthouse — but it's low and controlled. Safe.

Thomas leans back on the creamy-browny sofa, stretching his arms out. He props his legs up on the coffee table, watching curiously as Newt fiddles with the record player.

It's warm and secure, brownish tones illuminating from the lamp in the corner. Eventually, Newt picks a disc he likes, and pops it into the player.

A classic, old tune begins to play, a smooth jazz sound that Thomas smiles at. He can't tell if it's a saxophone or trumpet — but whatever it is, he likes it.

"Sweethearts a word you use too lightly —  _lightly_!" Newt begins to sing, turning to face Thomas and prancing around. He wiggles his hips with a big grin on his face — he's dancing foolishly, but Thomas laughs along, watching him hold out his arms in an invite.

Newt continues on when Thomas rejects him, twirling around and waving his arms in the air. Thomas much prefers to watch him. He likes the entertainment — and Newt is a  _very_  cute dancer.

"It's more than just a word to me — and honey I reascended slightly —  _slightly_  — so hold that kiss, remember this —  _remember this kiss_!"

Thomas watches with a fond smile on his face, as Newt parades about the small space between the couch and the fire. The brown rug beneath them somehow doesn't slide as Newt jumps across it, holding his hand in a fist as a microphone.

"C'mon, Thomas!" Newt grins, bouncing about. He waves his arms towards him again, biting his lip playfully with a grin. "Dance with me! This is the best part!"

And so, reluctantly so, Thomas heaves out a very dramatic sigh, allowing Newt to pull him up from the sofa. The saxophone blares around them — and whatever other instruments — and he finds himself bobbing along with Newt, without a care in the world.

Newt grabs his hands, shaking his arms and jumping, swaying his hips with the same merry, cheeky grin on his face. He rolls his shoulders, dropping his expression into a serious one, walking forward to encourage Thomas to walk backwards.

"Don't sweetheart me —  _thought you'd know we never would_  — if you don't mean it —  _what would we do?_ — don't talk sweet words —  _baby come to papa_  — if they're not true —  _we all love you, we do_  — love must be true —  _we're true to you_  — mean what you're saying —   _honeycup we do_  — unless you do —  _I suppose it, we're all true_  — don't sweetheart me!"

Newt presses closer each time, widening his eyes and dramatising his expression. He smirks as Thomas is sucked into the game — the intense gaze in his eyes unnerving.

As the instrumental plays out, Newt laughs out loud, pulling Thomas into another sequence of bouncing and stepping side to side. He wriggles his hips again, softening and slowing his movements as the music fades and dies down.

"You're a great dancer," Thomas snorts, as soon as it's over, earning a light kick to the shin.

"What? I was serious!" He chuckles, holding up his arms defensively when Newt mock glares at him.

"You just wish you were as good as I am."

"Yeah," Thomas smirks, flopping back onto the sofa. "That's definitely it. If I had your talent — phew, the places I'd go!"

"Alright, alright, you can shut up now," Newt grumbles, but he's smiling. He's always smiling.

He plops himself next to Thomas, throwing his legs over his lap as the next song begins to play. It's slow, a nice touch to the atmosphere. It loudens the sudden silence, and Thomas carefully slips an arm around Newts waist, pulling him in.

"I'm glad you're okay," Newt whispers, against his neck. "It would have been really shit if you didn't make it."

Thomas laughs a little at that, rubbing careful circles along his back, tracing his spine. It's relaxing, especially after the events yesterday had to offer. He himself is suddenly glad that he's okay — what would have happened if he actually died?

That gets him thinking. Would he just have woken up back at home, safe and sound? Or would he have died back in the past, never to have ever existed in the future anyway?

Shit. That's a headwreck.

He doesn't dwell on it for too long, because Newt is humming in content and kissing at his jaw — so he stops worrying about what could have been and let's himself be.

They're okay. Rough on the edges, with a few screws loose, but they're okay.

And if not, they will be.

_May, 1940_

**M O N D A Y**

Newt comes bursting into their bedroom, waving what seems to be a newspaper and a pack of carrot sticks in his hands.

"Thomas! Look!" He nearly shouts, throwing the paper at him.

It's been three weeks since their encounter at the hospital, and after the catastrophe of the lighthouse. They're doing better — much better. They're still upset over losing Minho's letter to the fire, and over the fact that the lighthouse is  _gone_  — but they're doing better.

"What is it?" Thomas says, because it's early morning and he's only just getting dressed. Newt doesn't seem to have any sense of personal space. Or maybe he just doesn't give a fuck.

"It was on the radio in the kitchen. I was making us breakfast and I heard it!" He burbles out, nearly tripping over his own words in excitement. Or energy. Thomas isn't really sure.

Maggie and Charles have just gone to the markets early to get the groceries for the week — leaving Newt and Thomas to venture for themselves on this bright, sunny, morning of May.

It clearly isn't a good idea, as Newt is already somehow on an energetic rush and fuzz and Thomas isn't even fully awake yet.

"Our troops are pushed to the coast in France," Newt explains, watching Thomas' face twist in confusion. "They're trapped on the beaches in Dunkirk — they're all lined up, ready to be rescued, but there's thousands of them and too little boats."

"I - what's that got to do with us?" Thomas says, kind of stupidly. He feels even more like an idiot when Newt throws a look at him.

"One of Charles' friends has been to the big port quite close to here," he says, very mater-of-factly. "He says that civilians have been asked to help — people with boats were begged to sail across the Channel to save our men."

Thomas still doesn't get it. "I still don't know why that's got anything to do with us. What do you expect us to do, swim across and rescue them?"

Newt makes an impatient growling noise, low in his throat. "No, Thomas," he says, rolling his eyes. "Charles has the keys to his cousins boathouse. I found them in his study when you were sleeping."

"How do you know they're for a boathouse?" Thomas says, because this is a lot of information in very little time. "And how do you know it's his cousins?"

Newt sighs, seeming to have given up on him. "It came on the radio before Charles and Maggie left to go to the village. He told me all about his friend, and the port, and his cousins boathouse. There's a label on the key that says 'boathouse' so unless I guessed completely wrong, I'm sure it's pretty accurate."

Well damn. Thomas can't argue with that.

"That's very scary," he says, a bit numbly. "You want us to steal a boat that neither of us know how to work, and travel across the ocean to a war zone?"

Newt looks a bit hesitant. "Yes?"

Thomas groans, lying backwards onto his bed. It's dangerous — too dangerous. Newt can't possibly be serious. But he also knows that once Newt makes up his mind, it's  _very_  hard to change it. Impossible, even.

"Shouldn't we like, I don't know, register at the port? Aren't a bunch of boats supposed to sail together, or something? This can't be right."

Newt, uncertainty shadowing across his face, bites the inside of his cheek. "Well, yes, we should register with the navy — but we're still technically children, and it's a stolen boat."

"All the more reason not to go," Thomas says, because it's suddenly hit him how bad this idea is. "Seriously, Newt. Other people have it handled, and know what to do. We don't need to throw ourselves into more danger, don't you think?"

Newt suddenly looks even more determined, straining his neck and narrowing his eyes. "I've sailed a boat before, Thomas," he mutters, darkness clouding his face. "And, besides, it's been on radio since last Friday. It was just a reminder this morning — people have already found a safe way through the mines."

"Mines?" Thomas almost squeaks, heart lurching and dropping down to his feet. This is surreal.

"After we get into the open water," Newt continues, ignoring him, "we'll join with all the other boats, and then it's too late for anyone to do anything about it."

Thomas' has to hand it to him, he's pretty damn clever.

"Minho, could be one of them," Newt murmurs, softly, then. He sees the skeptical look on Thomas' face, and tries a different tactic. "We could save him, Thomas. We could save  _hundreds_. Just imagine."

And that's how Thomas finds himself swinging his legs off the bed, and following Newt downstairs.

His heart races wildly in his chest, because he knows fully well what he's getting himself into. Newt's never seen war movies, and he has no idea what to expect.

Once they're in the kitchen, Thomas grabs a loaf of bread and starts taking slices from it, throwing them onto the counter. He grabs whatever he can find and starts to make sandwiches, Newt in tow.

Newt prepares a flask of tea whilst Thomas places the sandwiches in a packet, wrapping it up.

"We're going to need a bag," Newt says, and Thomas suddenly remembers his schoolbag. That navy disaster that got him fucked in the first place.

"Hang on," he says, racing back towards the bedroom to empty all his schoolbooks on the floor.

It pierces his heart, for a second, as he takes a moment to stare at all his belongings. He hasn't opened it since he came here, and it makes him feel a stab in his chest to touch the items from a time before. From what seems to be a lifetime ago.

It baffles him, really. It's absurd, how once upon a time his biggest worries in life were school, homework, teachers, tests. How he used to glope around the hallways and skip class and sleep in detentions. How he used to snap back and throw punches and be miserable because he had nobody.

How he used to hate himself and his life and everything in it.

And now — now he has Newt. He has Charles and Maggie. He has the villagers that wave and smile, and the shop owners that pinch his cheeks and call him handsome. He has the constant reassurance that nobody hates him just for being him — and it kills him to know that this isn't where he truly belongs. As much as he wants to, he doesn't.

And then Newt hollers from the kitchen, tells him to get moving — and Thomas is brought back to reality, where cold and wet and wounded soldiers are waiting for them.

He grabs his bag, and races out of the room.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

The boathouse is dark, dusty, and cobwebbed. Streaks of sunlight stream through the broken glass ceilings, the rest of the walls covered in vines.

Stacked on top of wooden stand, lies, as promised, a large white boat.

"Pretty neat, isn't it?" Newt grins, waving the keys around his finger. "I'm sure it's not too hard to work, either."

"It's a big boat," Thomas says finally, after a long silence. "There's no way we can manage it by ourselves."

"Sure we can!" Newt says, all too enthusiastically. "What's there to figure out?"

"What about fuel? It's rationed, isn't it?" He tries again, wondering why he even bothers. Newt shakes his head at him, smiling despite the situation.

"He has tons here. There's more than enough."

And so, Thomas is stunned to silence once more. There's nothing he can say or do to change Newts mind — that's for sure.

And so, they open the door that leads to the water, combining their strength to maneuver the boat down the ramp. It takes them a long time — but eventually they have it, and Newt ties it to a mental ring in the slipway.

They spend another while searching for everything they need — life jackets, waterproof gear, all that stuff. They load up the large fuel drums, and throw Thomas' schoolbag on board.

Once they've everything set and ready to go, Thomas once again, feels his heart clench with fear.

"This won't end well," he mutters, because he has a sick feeling in his stomach and he's been taught to trust his instinct. "We can't just  _leave_. What about Maggie and Charles? They'll worry sick!"

"We won't be gone long," Newt says, grimly. "Back when the jobs done, I suppose."

And so, they climb into the boat, rev the engine, and set sail.

Adventure awaits.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

The waters aren't tough yet, but Thomas knows they will be.

It's been almost half an hour on sea, and so far, the only accomplishment they've made is to keep the boats engine running. Other than that, they're pretty much floating around waiting for action.

Thomas is watching as Newt tries to act like he knows what he's doing — and he can't lie, sailing across open water with no land in sight is a little nauseating. He's never been a big fan of the ocean.

But it's a sunny, glorious day, and the water glistens beautifully beneath the golden disc of hot light. It's the brink of summer, and Thomas tries to be grateful for the calm, warm weather.

His braces hang on his shoulders, strapped where they're supposed to be, supporting his shorts. The striped socks are rolled down and scrunched at his ankles, secured by the two-toned brown and white saddle shoes — and he suddenly feels bad.

Charles and Maggie have not only provided a home and food for him, but personal things — like clothes, and he feels suddenly like an asshole. They just left without an explanation — a note, a goodbye?

And what if they don't make it back?

Thomas suddenly feels horribly sick at the thought, the reality of what they're about to do hitting him. He knows what they're headed for. He  _knows_ , what's coming. Why did he agree to this? They're not  _heroes_  — they're young, naive, careless teenage boys in the middle of 1940.

Newt, dressed similarly to him, turns to give Thomas a small smile. "It's amazing, isn't it? I've always wanted to sail across the sea."

That sentence alone makes Thomas feel even more queasy. "I thought you said that you've sailed before?"

Newt lets out a small chuckle, shrugging his shoulders with a sheepish smile. "Only said that to get you to come — worked, d'innit?"

_Oh, God, kill me now._

Thomas swallows thickly, nodding at the statement. So that's even more fantastic — Newt now for sure has no idea what he's doing. And neither does he.

This is a bad, bad idea.

And then suddenly, in the distance, there seems to be bright, white dots. Hundreds and hundred of them, far up ahead.

"We seem to be late to the party," Newt jokes, revving the engine with a kind of skill Thomas has no idea he got from. "Look how many there are! They won't even notice us."

Thomas isn't so sure, but he keeps his mouth shut as Newt sails them as fast as he can towards the crowd of boats. It's only when they get closer does he see a massive tanker — pulling everyone in.

It's another bit before they get right up close, and once they do, the men in the tanker throw them a line, and Newt attaches it to the boat expertly, letting it tow them. Again, Thomas has no idea.

"This is to save fuel," Newt says, turning the engine off to sit back beside Thomas. "Because who knows how long we'll be out here for."

Thomas doesn't understand how he can possibly stay so calm — he's shaking with nerves already just at the sight of all the boats.

It's so bizarre — so bizarre. There's so, so many boats. So many, all linked up with the tanker, like some weird kind of regatta or something. It's hard just to sit back and let themselves be pulled along, because Thomas is sick with anxiety, and seeing the sights before him make everything so  _real_.

"We'll be here for a while, I s'pose," Newt guesses, nudging Thomas' side with a grin. "Don't look so nervous, Thomas. We're saving lives, remember?"

_That's exactly what I'm nervous about._

"Yeah," Thomas murmurs, trying to smile. "Yeah, you're right."

They're not at hell yet, but they're on the way.

And that's what makes him scared.

"All's left is to wait, now," Newt says, sighing. "Just, wait."

And so, they sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

It's a long time before they reach France, a long, long time — and it's almost dark, with the sudden cloudy skies and the smoke and the suns blockage from the tanker.

"Look, Thomas!" Newt says, pointing to the landline beach of which seems to be thousands of ants, planted on ground filled fires and bombs. It's then that Thomas realises those are the allies, trapped and waiting to be rescued, and his heart churns.

The tanker pulls them and the other hundreds of boats as close as possible to the shore, accompanied by some huge ships that couldn't get close enough, either.

"Here's where we're needed," Newt directs, rolling up his sleeves. "None of the big ships can get close, so we're going to go in, pull them on board, and sail them to one of the ships. Then, we'll turn around and repeat. Make sense?"

Thomas would be lying if he said he hadn't figured that much out himself already, somehow, but he nods in understanding and watches as Newt starts the engine, leaving the tanker. They sail along, in a chaos with the rest of the boats.

It's madness — a kind of insanity Thomas never would have imagined himself to be in. There's explosions all around them, and with the rocky boat and loud roars and shouts across the land, it's kind of terrifying.

He's suddenly reminded of the lighthouse — the fire, the smoke, the burning. And then he's reminded of what was lost, their belongings, Minho's letter —  _Minho_.

And then Thomas decides to block out the fear, the scariness of it all, the erupting bombs and hollering soldiers. He blocks it out, because he's here to save people. To save  _Minho_.

Newt sails them right up to the beach, and they spring into action. It's nerve-wrecking, to say the least, and Thomas feels his heart hammer in his chest as he takes in the view of the thousands of soldiers, wet and cold and wounded.

The sights are unimaginable, indescribable, unbelievable. Thomas doesn't think any kind of war movie, or series, or documentary could ever capture the rawness and reality of this. Of war. Because watching them, watching terrified soldiers and explosions and shouting men and pushing, frenzied boats, is a reminder. A reminder that this, is,  _war_.

He's jolted back into reality when Newt has to shout at him over the loud, ear-piercing havoc. "Start pulling them on!"

So Thomas turns to the first soldier he sees, once again, hit in the face by reality, and reaches out a hand, heart shattering when the man takes it gratefully, eyes large and disheartened and so incredibly  _sad_.

"Thank you," he's blubbering, as Thomas helps him on board. "Thank you, thank you."

And Thomas can't imagine what he's gone through, what he's seen.

He doesn't waste time, because there's screeching noises and sounds of chaos, roaring men and slashing boats with wavy, rough waters. There's shivering, traumatised soldiers and too many of them to count, so he quickly gestures the next on board, who doesn't wait a second before climbing on.

Thomas helps another five, before Newt turns them around and heads for the closest ship in front of them. Once they're there, the men on board dressed in army uniforms help the soldiers on board, and once they're all off their boat Thomas and Newt turn around to collect more.

And maybe it's because he's so focused on the wounded men, but suddenly, Thomas can't hear anything other than his heart thumping out of his chest, Newt faintly shouting, the soldiers thanking him.

He can't hear the fires started from bombs, he can't hear the shouting men, he tunes out the commotion, pulling soldiers on board like clockwork.

At some point, Newt reaches into Thomas schoolbag and starts to hand out sandwiches to everyone — along with the flask of tea. Thomas is once again shattered at the sight of the grateful, relieved soldiers, hungry and frozen and terror-stricken from the things they've seen.

And so, they continue for hours and hours — pulling six or seven men on board, bringing them to the big ships and turning around to do it all over again.

Some men are bloody than others, and Thomas tries not to react to the more severe wounds on some soldiers, feeling sick at the sight. One soldier in particular has a hole alongside his face, blood pulsing and oozing out of it. He's mumbling to himself, trembling fiercely as Thomas hands him one of the many sandwiches.

Some have eyes that are wide and still with shock, eyes that are unblinking and disturbed. Some have shaking shoulders and twitching fingers and unmoving mouths. Some are worse than others — but all are overwhelmed, traumatised, gutted inside by the horrors they've faced, and to Thomas, that's the worst of all.

Day and night, night and day, they bring soldiers to the ships, back and forth like it's the last thing they'll do. At some point, some sailors on the bigger ships give them something to eat and drink, telling them that they'll be 'no good with no fuel, y'hear?'.

It makes Thomas' heart pump with sudden pride for humanity — because there's hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people here to save the soldiers. Hundreds of people changing lives. Hundreds of people making history.

As the sun begins to rise, and the waters calm, Newt and Thomas turn around for their last batch. "This should be it," Newt says, almost sagging in relief. "We're almost there."

And so, they pull the last seven on board. Thomas reaches out for one more — one last one, because they can squeeze another — and his heart stops. His body freezes, when he comes face to face with someone he thought he'd never see again.

The boy, no, the  _soldier_  before him let's out a familiar, homely laugh, stretching out a hand to take his.

And Minho grins, big and wide and just like before.

"Damn, Thomas. Long time no see."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HELLO HELLO  
> man i am SO happy to be finally getting this chapter up — yall have NO idea   
> i really really hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as i did writing it ;)  
> and, at long last, minho is back !!!  
> things are getting wild kiddos
> 
> i love u all. thank you for reading. it means the very most <3
> 
> expect the unexpected.
> 
> — bee


	10. ten ; H O M E

❝ _Even though we never said it to each other._  
_We knew._ ❞  
_— unknown_

**W E D N E S D A Y**

"So, what the  _fuck_  are you two bimbos doing here?"

Thomas laughs out loud, despite his chattering teeth and bloodshot eyes. The waters have calmed and the day is beginning.

"We came to save you!" Newt says, very enthusiastically. "We saved so many people Minho — so, so many!"

Minho chuckles — lighthearted, disguising his hurt. "I believe you, Newt."

Thomas isn't sure if Newt is just too swallowed up and enthralled by the adventure of it all, to notice things aren't the same as before. Or if he's just too wild, too carefree, to really notice when the odd thing is out of place.

Minho's eyes are just that bit darker, his frown just a tad bit harder, his smile so slightly dimmer. He looks tired. So,  _so_ , tired, with creases in his forehead and droopy lids and a bland, forced grin.

The twinkle that was once there isn't anymore, and whatever innocence he had is most certainly gone. His eyes are twisted and shadowed, holding the horrors and terrors of war. Hiding the trauma and fear trapped inside those dark, dark orbs.

"Are you coming home for good, now?" Newt says, eyes widening at the thought. "T-they said you were missing. We thought you were dead."

Thomas winces at Newt's tactlessness, cringing at how he doesn't seem to have any kind of filter whatsoever.

Thankfully, Minho doesn't seem to mind. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry you had to think that way."

There's something about Minho's formal tone, faraway expression and the way he avoids the question that leaves a pinch in Thomas' gut. He doesn't say anything, but he looks away.

Newt carries on, burbling on a pumping surge of adrenaline. "It's mad out here! All the bombs, fire . . . it's crazy!"

Minho tries and manages a weak laugh, and neither him or Thomas have the heart to tell Newt to quieten down. Minho's eyes have purple, heavy bags beneath them, lids drooping with exhaustion. He's beyond wrecked.

The rest of the soldiers on the small boat don't make any comments, shivering and trembling silently to themselves. Thomas feels for them, he really does.

Newt continues chattering away, not really paying attention to how nobodies really listening. Thomas, halting his thoughts, suddenly comes to realise that Newt's trying to  _distract_  them — and his heart is filled with so much love.

Soon enough, they've ferried across and reached the ship. Thomas starts helping the soldiers be hoisted on board, Newt in tow.

Minho is last to be pulled up, but last minute he turns and clutches Thomas' arm, squeezing tight. "I'm coming back," he says, earnestly. There's a determined edge to his tone and a serious glaze in his eyes. "I promise."

And then he's gone, tugged up on board and with the rest of the men risking their lives.

Newt smiles, waving brightly.

"See you soon!"

And rolling his eyes, Thomas smiles, too.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

When Thomas and Newt return, almost all hell breaks loose.

For starters, they don't even get a second in before they're being roared at by a short bald guy that could do with reducing his spit spray.

"How dare you!" He's screaming, at a very soaked and cold Newt and Thomas. "Take my boat without my  _permission_? Have you lost your heads?"

Ah, yes. This must be Charles' cousin.

"But we saved hundreds!" Newt says, trying to defend them. He sounds like a young child throwing a tantrum, and with his big eyes and too-big clothes, it doesn't help their case.

Thomas ends up taking charge. "We apologise, sir, truly — it's just that a dear friend of ours was in immediate danger, and we just  _had_  to help. But we saved many, many lives. Doesn't that count for something?"

He internally cringes at how ridiculously fake he sounds, but Newt gives him a sideways grin and he decides it's enough.

"It doesn't matter, that!" Charles' cousin says, pitch higher in exasperation. "You two  _stole_  my boat, my fuel, and expect me to let it go because you saved your  _friend_? Absurd!"

Thomas can see the panic rising in Newts eyes, and he chews on his lip for a moment, trying to figure out a strategy.

"Have you got someone close to you risking their life to save ours?" He says, trying to steady his voice. His fists are clenched and he's barely past gritting his teeth — but he somehow knows exactly what to say now.

Charles' cousin narrows his eyes, but doesn't answer. Thomas takes it as a yes.

"So you've gotta get it, then, right? What it's like watching someone you care for march off into a battlefield? Under no promises of ever coming home?"

Newt reaches out to take his hand, but decides better on it and curls his arms across his chest instead.

Thomas takes a step forward, eyes flashing. "You  _know_  what it's like to lose someone you love. You know what it's like to stand back and  _watch_  them walk right into a death trap. You know — so why do you question us opting to save the lives of those risking or losing their own?"

_Reign it in, Thomas._

Charles' cousin takes a step back, brow raising challengingly. "You think that that will change the fact you stole my boat?"

"Oh my  _fuck_  — " Thomas groans loudly, ignoring how Newt makes an odd noise between a laugh and a choke. "Forget about the stupid boat! We're sorry, okay? But we've had absolute  _hell_  for the past three days, and if you want to go complain to all the soldiers we saved because we used your little floatie, go ahead!"

And with that, he marches off, head held high and as stubborn as a Rottweiler. Newt trails after him, laughing the entire time.

"Thomas!" He shouts, almost gawking. "You are going to get into  _so_  much trouble!"

"Fuck it," Thomas shrugs. And he means it. Who cares — they're heroes.

And they always will be.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Charles and Maggie are an entirely different story.

Newt and Thomas aren't in five seconds before they're getting scolded, coddled, and hugged all at once.

It's honestly a little bit sad, once Thomas remembers that himself and Newt are really the only things Maggie and Charles' have to look out for. To worry about. And god, did they make them two worried.

"Do you understand what you've  _done_?" Charles almost shouts, but there's no tinge of venom behind his words. "Harold almost killed me!"

Ah. That's the cousins name.

"But we  _did_  save people!" Thomas grins, holding up a finger to execute his point. "And that's much better, don't ya think?"

"I think I'm ready for bloody bed." Newt heaves out a straggly sigh, leaning against a kitchen chair. "Don't'cha think?"

Maggie gets her word in. "You're both grounded. For a week. Understood? No leaving the gardens, and no going to the corner shop or into the village. Am I clear?"

She still looks like a friendly old woman with sweets in her purse, but she's cross and stern and Thomas doesn't like to see this side of her.

"Yes, ma'am," himself and Newt say in sync, giggling childishly afterwards.

"Alright, scoot, then," Maggie scolds them lightly and shoos them away with a tea towel. Newt and Thomas scamper off, laughing heartedly the entire time.

And once their heads hit their pillows, they're out like lights. Dead to the world. Practically unconscious.

But that doesn't stop them from keeping their hands clasped together, gripping tight.

Or smiling in their sleep, too, for that matter.

**T U E S D A Y**

One week later, a letter arrives.

Thomas is curious to it, as it's addressed to Newt and all fancy-looking. The olden-time scrawl is cursive and gold, with an English, dated stamp to seal the deal.

Maggie eyes it dubiously, tight-lipped and hesitant as Thomas spots it on the table, curiosity growing inside him rapidly at the sight.

"What's this?" He says, wondering briefly for a moment if he truly wants to know the answer.

"That's for Newt to find out, Thomas. Sit down and eat your eggs," Maggie replies, like a mother would. She smiles at him to soften her words, but he still feels a slight pang in his heart. What could it be?

As if on cue, Newt wanders into the kitchen, then, looking oddly like a baby lamb. His hair is stuck up in all sorts, shirt riding up his stomach as he stretches his arms.

"Find out what?" He frowns, a typical, almost signature expression of his. It doesn't necessarily mean anything, considering he frowns at everything.

But then they're distracted all over again — by a faint, urgent knock at the door. Whoever the culprit is shows no shame in disturbance, banging alarmingly against the soft, faded wood.

"Someone's at the door," Newt states the obvious.

Maggie wipes her hands on her flowery apron, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She barely has the handle turned before a familiar, girlish voice is shouting loudly, announcing their arrival.

"Minho's home!" Mina exclaims, throwing her hands up. "He's home! He's home, oh, you  _must_ come visit!"

Newt is out of his seat and dragging Thomas by the wrist in the blink of an eye, stopped by Maggie who crosses her arms and edges closer towards the door. There's a twinkle in her eye as she speaks.

"Did you forget that you're both grounded?"

Thomas holds back a groan. "Aw, Maggie,  _please_."

She tut-tuts softly, wringing a dishcloth in her hands. It's a moment of dreadful silence before she beckons them away from her, swishing her cloth fondly at them.

"Oh alright then, off with you. Be back before lunch."

And they're stumbling out the door before she can change her mind, the letter forgotten.

It's not long before Mina has led them to a small cottage, similar to their own. It's draped in vines and cocooned by claw-like trees, hidden away at the end of a dusty, forlorn road. Newt and Thomas glance at each other, hearts racing simultaneously.

"I'll get him. Come inside," Mina invites them in, rushing through the door without so much as a greeting. Thomas finds it a bit awkward, but considering they've met Dandy before, they hesitantly walk inside, searching for the sweet-smelling woman.

She appears at the kitchen doorway, smiling big and bright and relieved — a soft easiness rests on her face, any signs of previous stress vanished. She holds out a plump hand, gentle eyes gleaming.

"Hello, boys. It's been a while since we've last met. How have you been?"

Thomas opens his mouth to answer, when there's a chorus of thumps behind them, feet thundering down the stairs. Minho emerges before them, dishevelled and messy looking; but well rested, nonetheless.

He looks better than a week ago. He'd been washed up and exhausted, gutted and bloodied with eyes that held haunted stories threatening to be told. They still do — but they're less visible, now.

"Hey, guys," he says, swallowing down the tremors inside him.

Newt and Thomas both gape at him.

"Hi, bud," Thomas says, reaching out to him. Minho doesn't take the hand, subtly avoiding the gesture. The touch. Thomas retreats straight away.

"Let's uh, lets get outta' here. Been cooped up all day, right Dandy?"

Dandy smiles kindly. "Off you go, then. Take Mina with you, will you?"

"I — " and it's so unlike Minho to avoid bringing his sister anywhere; it's a bit of a shocker, to Newt and Thomas both. "I — I think it's best she stay here. Just for today."

Mina looks crestfallen — but she nods, accepting his desires. It's admirable, really, because she must feel so left out; but she takes it in her stride, saluting playfully before retreating to the back garden.

And so, the trio venture off, as wild and reckless as their days before.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Minho looks at the remains of the lighthouse with an undistinguishable look on his face.

He looks almost angry, but there's a sad,  _sad_  look behind those tormented orbs of his. The lighthouse was their safe space — their  _home._  And to come back from such an evil, terrorising place, to be faced with this? Thomas can't imagine what's going on in his head.

Newt, as eager to help as ever, takes Minho's hand in his. Thomas wonders foolishly for a moment if Minho will pull away.

He doesn't, and Newt takes Thomas' hand too, and they stare and stare and stare at what once was.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

"Your letter," Newt says, and Minho looks up. "Your letter was in the lighthouse. It burned to ashes."

 _Just like our hearts_ , Thomas thinks, then frowns at the sudden thought.

Minho looks a little vexed. "I — thanks for telling me?"

Newt's face softens. "I just thought I'd let you know. That we put it there, I mean. Like, peace, get it? We put the letter there because that was our  _place_ , and it had all you in it."

Minho smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

They're on the beach, watching the waves swallow the sand and wash up the shore.

"We missed you," Thomas finds himself murmuring, because he's been silent all day. "We — yeah. It sucked without you, man."

Minho smiles at that, too. "I missed you guys too," he whispers, letting the sand trickle through his fingers. "A whole lot."

"Well, you don't have to miss us much more," Newt grins, leaning back on his elbows. "Your war days are over."

And Thomas glances at Minho's forlorn face, tight and twisted with plagued thoughts, and he knows that there's something he isn't telling them.

So he links his arm with Minho's, nudging him with a playful smirk, and the sun dances with the sea and licks their skin, a peace offering.

And Minho smiles just a little bit more.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

"Five days," Minho murmurs, because Newt is gone to get lemonade and it's just him and Thomas outside.

"And then you go back?" Thomas tries to keep himself from sounding like a strangled cat, but his efforts go to waste.

They're outside the cottage, under the big big tree, swinging on a makeshift hammock made from a large blanket, thick rope and soft cushions.

"Yeah," Minho says, squinting from where the sun filters through the leaves. "Back to that shitstorm."

His leg is hanging off the hammock, pushing against the ground gently, creating a soft thrum as him and Thomas sway softly.

"Are you scared?" Thomas already knows the answer — of course he does, but he feels as if he should ask anyways.

Minho looks at him sceptically. "Of course I'm scared," he swallows, casting his eyes elsewhere. "If you ain't scared, you ain't human."

Thomas nudges him with his foot. "You'll be okay. You made it this far already, what's to stop you now?"

And Minho stretches, resting his arms behind his head, closing his eyes and letting his face soak up the sun.

"Yeah," he murmurs, as the breeze blows softly.

"I will."

✉︎✉︎✉︎

"There's a letter for you, Newt," Charles says, once the two boys return home. Maggie is at the markets, off to do her bit of shopping and leaving all the men to relax inside the cottage.

"Maggie told me about that this morning," Thomas suddenly remembers, disposing his shoes at the front door. "Mina came knocking before you could get a look at it."

Newt scrunches up his nose in confusion, frowning deeply at the mail addressed to him. "I don't think I've ever gotten something sent to me in my life," he says, bewildered. "I don't have a clue what that could be."

And Thomas finds that rather sad, because Newt hasn't had it easy, not really. Maybe this can finally be a letter of something good, this time.

Curiously, almost a little cautiously, Newt reaches over and slowly tears open the letter. His frown doesn't leave his face, only seeming to deepen as he unfolds the paper, eyes skimming across the words.

"This doesn't make sense," he says, finally, after a moment of silence. "I don't — I don't get it. It says — no. I'm not. I'm not leaving."

Thomas' heart starts to pound at that. "Leave? Why would you have to leave?"

"The stupid —  _stupid_  orphanage," Newt spits out, anger seething through his bones. "They want me back to  _work_. That's  _ridiculous_. I'm  _safe_  here. They're — they're taking all the evacuees home. That's just — absolute nonsense! I refuse. No. I'm not doing it. I'm staying right here."

Thomas gently pries the letter from Newt's stubborn fingers, folding it back up just as Charles enters the kitchen. Newt is distraught, face morphed into one of frustration and despair.

"Don't make me leave!" He begs instantly, while Charles sighs heavily and pulls out a wooden chair. "Please,  _please_. I'll do anything! I'll work here — or — or — "

"Newt, son, it doesn't work that way," Charles murmurs, looking tired and worn out. "I wish, Lord, I wish it did. But legally, you are permitted to return to the orphanage under it's request. Your stay here was temporary. If they want you back, I'm afraid that's how things are going to be. I'm — truly, awfully sorry," he adds, watching Newt's face crumble.

"I can't," he whispers, fists clenching. "I can't, I can't. I  _hate_  it there. I'll run away — I don't care, I'm not going back there, not for nobody, nohow. Not now, not  _ever_!"

And with that, Newt turns, and races out the front door, and he doesn't look back.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Thomas finds Newt almost instantly.

He doesn't approach him, he sits and waits, letting him be. His blonde hair is wild and rebellious in the gentle breeze, wheat-gold locks tangled and messy atop his head.

He's upset, Thomas knows that. He would be too, and honestly, his heart sinks at the thought of Newt leaving. It hasn't hit him yet — that Newt might actually have to go back.

 _His home is here_ , he thinks, a sudden rush of anger sizzling through his head.  _He doesn't need to go back. He belongs here._

Newt turns his head and catches Thomas standing there, rolling his eyes and turning away, as stubborn as ever.

"You didn't have to follow me," he hisses, frustration lacing his words. "I'm not a baby."

Thomas has to smile at that, because when will Newt come to realise Thomas follows because he simply can't be without him?

"I wasn't planning on interrupting," Thomas replies honestly, taking a few steps forward. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's what — that's what friends do."

"Friends?" Newt spits out, laughing humourlessly. "Yeah, friends. That's what it is, innit? You and me?"

Thomas swallows thickly. "Wh — I don't know  _what_  we are, Newt."

"You're some wise guy, ain't ya?" Newt seethes through his teeth, and Thomas can see his fists curling from where he's sat in the hot sand. "We're friends. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't get like this, Newt," Thomas murmurs, edging closer. "Talk to me. I'm listening."

Newt deflates a little, then, almost as if to get his head in order before he starts again, upset and irritated in a way Thomas has never seen before.

"I don't want to leave," he mumbles, unclenching his fingers to cross his arms instead. "I don't want to leave Maggie or Charles, or Minho or Mina."

He looks over to Thomas, expression softening. "I don't want to leave  _you_."

And Thomas takes a seat next to him, giving his wrist a quick squeeze. "I — I know. I don't want you to go."

Newt is intelligent and brave and fiercely loyal, and he's beautiful and captivating and  _different_.

Newt is pink lips and blue skies and midnight bus rides, bloody knees and frozen bones. He's rooftops and laughing whispers and hazy memories and 3am wanderings, freshly cut grass and dusty fingers and gramophone players.

Newt is shining eyes and delicate hands and pretty, pretty smiles, and he's everything Thomas has ever wanted.

"You mean so much to me," he finds himself whispering, because Newt has opened up a part of him he didn't even know existed, and has brought him into this world of make-believe and bittersweet love, and he wishes he could tell him, somehow. Word it  _right_.

Newt takes his hand, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't know what this is — but I don't want it to end. Happiness — happiness always goes away, I know that — but just this once; just this one thing. I need it to stay. I need this. I — I need  _you_ , Thomas."

And Thomas kisses his cheek because there's nobody around, and thinks that the world is a cruel, cruel place.

He presses their foreheads together, curling his fingers in Newt's gorgeous locks. "I'll miss you," he murmurs, eyes closed. "But it'll be okay. I'll write to you. Every day."

"I can't leave," Newt whispers, tears slipping out of his dark, dark eyes. "I can't, I cant."

"You'll be okay," Thomas tells him, gentling him into it. "I promise, Newt. You'll see me again, someday."

"Will I?" Newt says, disbelieving, and Thomas' heart clenches.

He turns away to look at the sea, and doesn't answer.

✉︎✉︎✉︎

Their last night together is something Thomas will remember forever.

It's sweet kisses and creamy skin and tongue on teeth and panting into hot mouths, delicious moans and skin on skin; it's tender touches and gentle nips and bruising flesh, and it's light laughter and sweaty chests and a night of absolute, positively perfect, love.

Just, love.

And when they wake, they kiss. They wash, change, and eat breakfast in the warm glow of morning sunshine. They whisper sweet nothings and lay in the garden, entranced with one another, in moments of intimacy that are so blissfully flawless, it almost doesn't feel real.

Minho comes over and they sit and remember their days before, of laughter and adventure and excitement — days that they'll never get back. Days that seem so long ago, now.

"Friends always, yeah?" Newt chokes out to Minho, who snorts and pulls him into a hug, dragging Thomas into it so the three of them can remember their lives before all over again.

"Yeah," Minho murmurs, eyes soft and vulnerable and  _real_ , and Thomas is reminded of how much he loves the both of them. So, so much.

And Newt packs his belongings in silence, occasionally glancing to give them a small smile. They're ready by two o' clock, to journey into town where the train station is — where Newt will be getting the train back to London.

Minho doesn't come for the journey, and Thomas wonders if it's because it's too loud — but he doesn't mention it and let's Newt and him exchange one last hug before it's time to go, with the promise of a goodbye from Newt to Mina.

The ride into town is quiet and solemn, and if Maggie has noticed Newt sitting too close to Thomas, she doesn't say so.

And then suddenly all too quick they're there, and Newt's knuckles tighten around his tweed leather suitcase, checking to make sure it's locked shut before they all scramble out of the vintage taxi cab, waving goodbye to the driver as they head into the station.

It's busy and loud and bustling with people, just as it was the last time he was here, and Thomas is suddenly taken back to the sunny day back in September 1939, where he'd first met Newt on the train here, and his stomach tightens.

Maggie hands Newt a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, patting his arm with the softness of a mother. "Take care, darling. You've been such a pleasure, and I hope we do cross paths one day in the future."

And Newt hugs her and kisses her cheek, eyes glassy and glistening with unshed tears. Charles gives him a pat on the back, and then a hug, straightening the cap on Newt's head affectionately.

And then it's time, and Thomas and Newt depart from Maggie and Charles as they walk towards the train, Newt holding his ticket tightly as Thomas carries his case.

They've got one last moment alone, and it's bittersweet, just as it's always been.

Just as the train whistles to call for it's passengers, Newt turns to Thomas and takes a deep breath, trying to smile.

"I don't know what to say," he admits, almost shyly, swinging his case in front of his knees. "I have so many words but not enough time to say them all."

Thomas chuckles, wishing he could kiss him. "Me too, Newt, me too."

"Thank you, for everything," Newt blurts out, cheeks turning a rosy pink. "I — You've really made me happy. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I hope you never change; with your weird words and strange ways. Never, ever change."

"Thank  _you_ , Newt," Thomas says, softly, swallowing down the tears. "I'll see you soon, yeah? Maybe meet up when this war is over and go to the end-of-war celebrating after party?"

And Newt laughs, tears flowing freely down his cheeks, eyes bright as ever, even if he doesn't get it. "Yeah. Yeah, it sounds like a good plan."

And the train whistles again, and Newt gives him a sheepish smile before turning around, lugging his case onto the compartment, settling in next to the window and opening it, waving out to him.

"I'll see you someday, Thomas!" He calls, as the train engine starts up noisily, smoke erupting as the wheels begin to churn loudly. "Someday, Tommy! Someday!"

"Goodbye, Newt!" Thomas calls after him, eyesight blurry as he watches the train slowly fade away, and his heart races and pounds in his chest.

"I love you, Newt!" He screams, suddenly, the wind catching his words. "I love you!"

But it's too late, the train is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's still reading and commenting, it makes my day. seriously. i cant thank u all enough.
> 
> once again, i'll see u very, very soon.
> 
> remember to drink water.
> 
> i love u all so much.
> 
> \- bee

**Author's Note:**

> well hello my lovely readers
> 
> idk wtf i'm doing ok i haven't even got time to update my other fics and here my ass is again, starting a new one
> 
> rip me lols
> 
> anyways, so that it makes more sense, i'll give u a rundown on what it's about
> 
> so basically ; thomas, like i said, is the 'basket case' of his school (i know that term isn't really used anymore but i wanted to use it) not that he's unable to cope or anything, it's just how his peers see him. that's his label
> 
> so, it's a time travel au hehe, which means thomas goes back in time to a place you'll find out in chapter 2 ;))
> 
> there, he'll meet u know who, and BAM the fic begins
> 
> i hope u enjoy it as much as i enjoy writing it, and if u want, check out my other fic 'marked as his' ;)
> 
> i'll see u soon kiddos
> 
> \- bee


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